The Wedding Gown
“How dare you, Emily? How dare you try on my wedding dress?” Margaret’s voice trembled with fury as she stood in the bedroom doorway, gripping the frame with whitened fingers.
Emily turned, the zipper still halfway undone at her back. The ivory satin dress clung to her slender figure, skimming her waist before pooling gracefully on the floor in soft folds.
“Margaret, I—I only wanted to see if it might suit me,” the girl stammered, her cheeks burning scarlet. “Christopher said it would be all right.”
“Christopher said?” His mother stepped forward, fists clenched. “My son had no right to let you near my things! That gown is sacred to me—do you understand? Sacred!”
Emily fumbled with the zipper, but it caught stubbornly. The harder she tugged, the more it refused to budge.
“Margaret, please—I can’t get it off…”
“Don’t you dare tear it!” the woman snapped. “If you ruin it, I’ll never forgive you! Stay still!”
Her hands shook as she carefully worked the stubborn clasp. Emily could feel the tension radiating from the lean woman, her hair pulled tight into a severe bun.
“Do you even understand what this is?” Margaret whispered as she eased the gown from Emily’s shoulders. “This isn’t just fabric. I wore this when I married Christopher’s father… God rest him…”
Silently, Emily slipped back into her plain jumper. In the mirror, she watched Margaret smooth each delicate fold, checking for the slightest crease.
“I’m sorry,” Emily said softly. “I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just… the wedding’s in a month, and I haven’t the means for a dress of my own…”
Margaret turned sharply. “Then who’s forcing you to wed? Thought my boy would provide for you? He’s hardly out of nappies himself!”
“We love each other,” Emily murmured.
“Love!” Margaret scoffed. “You can’t rent a flat on love, nor feed children with it! I thought I loved, too—and lived in hardship all my days!”
Footsteps sounded in the hall, and Christopher appeared—tall, fair-haired, sensing the tension at once.
“What’s happened? Mum, why are you so cross?”
“Ask your bride what mischief she’s been up to!” Margaret hung the dress in the wardrobe and slammed the door.
Christopher looked between them. “Em… you tried it on?”
“I told you I wanted to see… You said your mother wouldn’t mind…”
“Thought she’d be out,” he muttered.
“Did you now?” Margaret threw up her hands. “Plotting behind my back, in my own home, with my own things!”
“Mum, don’t carry on! It’s just a dress—it’s not as though anyone’s using it!”
A heavy silence fell. When Margaret turned to him, Emily saw an old, aching sorrow in her eyes.
“No one needs it? Is that so?” Her voice was deathly quiet. “Then I suppose no one needs me—nor my memories, nor what little I hold dear.”
“Mum, I didn’t mean—”
“Listen well, son,” Margaret drew herself up. “Live as you please. But my dress stays untouched. Save your pennies and buy your own.”
She left, and the kitchen door banged shut behind her.
“Now we’re for it,” Christopher sighed. “She won’t speak to me for a month.”
“Kit, why is she like this? I meant no harm…”
He sank onto the bed, rubbing his face. “It’s a long tale, Em. After Dad died… she changed. Used to be full of laughter. Now she keeps his things like relics. That dress… Sometimes she takes it out, presses it, talks to it.”
“Talks to it?”
“Aye. Thinks I don’t hear. Once, when I was small, I listened. She told it how she missed him, what a good man he was… Gave me a turn, but I understand.”
Emily sat beside him. “Should I speak to her? Explain I never meant offense?”
“Try. Gently, though. She’s raw just now…”
In the kitchen, Margaret hacked at a cabbage for stew, the knife striking the board like an axe.
“Margaret… may I come in?”
“Come if you must,” she said without looking up.
Emily hesitated, then approached. “I wanted to apologize. Truly, I never meant to hurt you. It’s only… my mum passed when I was little, and my aunt who raised me hasn’t much. So I thought—”
“Thought you’d help yourself to a free gown?” Margaret muttered.
“No!” Emily flushed. “I thought… perhaps you might see me as—as a daughter.”
Margaret froze, then turned. “A daughter? Earn that first!”
“How?” Emily whispered. “Tell me what to do… I’ll try.”
Margaret set down the knife, wiped her hands.
“Sit. I’ll tell you about that dress.”
Emily obeyed.
“I was nineteen when I married Kit’s father. Handsome he was—all the girls sighed after him. Yet he chose me. This dress, my own mother and I stitched for three months. Every evening, each bead sewn by hand. Mum said, ‘Peg, remember this day. It comes but once.’” Her voice softened, eyes distant.
“And so it did. William—that was his name—carried me over the threshold in this very gown. Said I was the fairest bride alive. Then life took its course. Kit was born, work, chores… Away the dress went.”
“You never wore it again?”
“Oh, I did. Every anniversary. William laughed—‘Still a girl, Peg!’ But I liked to feel a bride again… Last wore it the week before he died. The way he looked at me…”
She trailed off, gazing through the window.
“Do you see now?”
“I do,” Emily nodded. “Forgive me. I didn’t think.”
“Ah, youth.” Margaret waved a hand. “What do you know of real memories?”
“Could I… see your wedding photos?” Emily ventured.
Margaret studied her. “Why?”
“I’d like to. Does Kit favor his dad?”
From the sideboard, she fetched a heavy album.
“Move closer, then.”
They bent over yellowed photos—a young Margaret beaming in white, a dark-haired man beside her.
“Lovely pair,” Emily said sincerely.
“That we were. Here’s the registry office… here’s the toast at home…”
“Margaret… what if we made my dress together? You’ve the skill—look what you created!”
Margaret considered. “Little time left… And good fabric costs dear.”
“I’ve some saved. Not enough for a shop dress, but perhaps for material? If you’d guide me…”
“Right then,” she said at last. “We’ll try. But I’ll not abide clumsy stitches.”
“I’ll learn!”
Christopher appeared in the doorway.
“Mum… you’re not angry with Em anymore?”
“We’ll manage,” Margaret said briskly. “Tomorrow, your girl and I go for fabric. You—think where you’ll live. My flat won’t hold three.”
“Mum—”
“That’s enough. A man keeps his family—not clings to his mother’s apron strings.”
Next morning at the market, Margaret inspected every bolt before choosing a satin.
“This one. The sheen is just right. And that lace for trimming.”
“It’s costly,” Emily fretted.
“Weddings aren’t for pinching pennies. You’ll look at these photos all your life.”
At home, Margaret unearthed an old sewing machine.
“My mother’s. Thirty years old, but it runs true. Well then—shall we?”
For a week, Emily ripped seams. Margaret was merciless—the slightest flaw meant starting anew.
“Your hands might as well be feet! How will you keep house if you can’t sew straight?”
“I’m trying!”
“Try harder. At your age, I clothed my family—husband, mother-in-law, and all.”
But in time, Emily improved. Even Margaret’s edges softened. Evenings, while Christopher worked, they bent under the lamplight as she spoke of the past.
“We met at the village hall. William played accordion for the dances. Such hands he had… Golden. Could mend, build, play anything…”
“Why did he go so soon?”
“His heart. Worked himself to the bone—wouldn’t stop. ‘Peg,’ he’d say, ‘a man provides.’ And so he did… till it broke him.”
“You loved him deeply.”
“Love him,” she corrected. “Still do. That’s why I fear for Kit—that he’ll wreck himself the same.”
“He won’t. We’ll share the load.”
“Hmph. Youth always says so.”
Two weeks before the wedding, the gown neared completion—only lace and a final fitting remained.
“Up on the stool,” Margaret ordered. “Let’s mark the hem.”
Emily gasped at herStanding before the mirror, Emily saw not just a bride, but the beginning of a new family—one stitched together by patience, memory, and the quiet love of a mother who had finally let go of the past.
