**The Wedding Gown**
“How dare you, Emily? How dare you try on my wedding dress?” Margaret’s voice trembled with outrage as she stood in the bedroom doorway, her fingers gripping the frame, knuckles white.
Emily turned, the zip still half undone. The ivory satin clung to her slender frame, nipping at her waist before cascading in soft folds to the floor.
“Margaret, I—I only wanted to see if it would suit me,” she stammered, her blush creeping to the roots of her hair. “Thomas said it would be alright—”
“Thomas said?” His mother stepped forward, fists clenched. “My son had no right to let you touch my things! That gown is sacred to me. Do you understand? Sacred!”
Emily fumbled with the zip, but it stuck fast. The more she tugged, the tighter it jammed.
“Margaret, please—I can’t get it off—”
“Don’t you dare tear it!” the woman shrieked. “If you ruin it, I’ll never forgive you! Stay still!”
Her fingers shook as she worked the fastener free. Emily could feel the tension radiating from her, this wiry woman with her hair scraped back in a tight bun.
“Do you even know what this means?” Margaret whispered, carefully sliding the dress from Emily’s shoulders. “This isn’t just fabric. I married Thomas’s father in this… God rest his soul.”
Silently, Emily pulled on her worn jumper. In the mirror, she watched Margaret smooth every fold, checking for creases.
“I’m sorry,” Emily murmured. “I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just—the wedding’s next month, and I can’t afford a dress…”
Margaret whirled around.
“Then who’s forcing you to marry? Did you think my son would keep you? He’s still a boy himself!”
“We love each other,” Emily whispered.
“Love!” Margaret scoffed. “Love won’t pay rent or feed children! I thought I loved once too, and where did it leave me? In poverty!”
Footsteps echoed in the hall. Thomas appeared—tall, fair-haired, sensing the tension at once.
“What’s happened? Mum, why are you so red?”
“Ask your fiancée what she’s been up to!” Margaret hung the dress back in the wardrobe and slammed the door.
Thomas looked from Emily to his mother.
“Em, did you try it on?”
“You said I could—you said she wouldn’t mind—”
“I thought she’d be out,” he admitted weakly.
“Oh, so you conspired behind my back!” Margaret threw up her hands. “In my own house, with my own things!”
“Mum, don’t make a scene. It’s just a dress—it’s not like anyone’s using it!”
The room fell silent. Margaret turned slowly, and Emily saw her face change—old pain, deep and worn, flickering in her eyes.
“No one’s using it?” she said softly. “I see. So I’m no use either. My memories, what matters to me…”
“Mum, I didn’t mean—”
“Listen, son,” Margaret straightened, “live as you like. But my dress stays untouched. Save up and buy your own.”
She walked out, and the kitchen door clicked shut behind her.
“Now we’re in for it,” Thomas sighed. “She won’t speak to me for weeks.”
“Tom… why is she like this? I didn’t do anything wrong.”
He sat on the bed, rubbing his face.
“It’s a long story, Em. After Dad died… she changed. Used to be lively, always laughing. Now? Keeps his things like relics. That dress… sometimes she takes it out, strokes it, talks to it.”
“Talks to it?”
“Yeah. Thinks I don’t hear. Once, when I was little, I listened. She told it how much she missed him, what a good man he was… Creepy, but I get it.”
Emily sat beside him.
“Should I talk to her? Explain I didn’t mean to hurt her?”
“Try. But be careful. She’s furious.”
In the kitchen, Margaret chopped cabbage violently, the knife striking the board like an axe.
“Margaret… may I come in?”
“Come if you must,” she muttered without looking up.
Emily hesitated, then stepped closer.
“I wanted to apologise. Truly. It’s just—my mum died when I was little, and my aunt who raised me… she hasn’t much. So I thought—”
“You thought you’d help yourself,” Margaret snapped.
“No!” Emily flushed. “I thought… maybe you’d see me as a daughter.”
Margaret froze, eyes locking onto hers.
“A daughter? Earn that title first.”
“How?” Emily whispered. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll try.”
Margaret set the knife down, wiped her hands.
“Sit. I’ll tell you about that dress.”
Emily obeyed as Margaret’s voice softened.
“I was nineteen when I married Thomas’s father. Handsome, tall—every girl fancied him. But he chose me. This dress… my mother and I sewed it for three months. Every bead stitched by hand. She said, ‘Maggie, remember this day. It’ll never come again.'”
Her eyes glazed with memory.
“Only one such day. John—his name was John—carried me over the threshold in this very gown. Said I was the fairest bride alive. Then… life happened. Thomas came. Work. Bills. The dress was packed away.”
“You never wore it again?”
“Oh, I did. Every anniversary. John laughed—’Still a girl at heart!’ But I wanted to feel like a bride again… Last time I wore it was a week before he died. He looked at me… as if saying goodbye.”
She fell silent, gaze drifting to the window.
“Now you see why?”
“I do,” Emily nodded. “Forgive me.”
Margaret waved a hand. “Youth. What do you know of real memories?”
“Could I… see your wedding photos?” Emily ventured.
Margaret eyed her. “Why?”
“I just… Is Thomas like his dad?”
After a pause, Margaret fetched an album from the sideboard.
“Sit closer.”
They bent over yellowed photos—a younger Margaret in white, a dark-haired man beside her.
“Beautiful,” Emily said honestly.
“We were,” Margaret agreed. “Here at the registry office, here at the reception…”
“Margaret… what if we made my dress together? You’re so skilled—”
Margaret hesitated.
“Time’s short. And good fabric’s dear.”
“I’ve some savings. Not enough for a dress, but for material… If you’d help—”
“Fine,” she relented. “But I’m strict. No crooked seams.”
“I’ll learn!”
Thomas appeared in the doorway.
“Mum, you’re not cross with Em anymore?”
“We’ll manage,” Margaret said curtly. “Tomorrow we’ll buy fabric. And you—think where you’ll live. My flat’s too small.”
“But Mum—”
“Enough. A man provides.”
The next morning, they went to the market. Margaret inspected dozens of bolts before choosing ivory satin.
“This one. Not too shiny. And lace for trim.”
“It’s pricey,” Emily fretted.
“Weddings aren’t for scrimping. You’ll look at these photos forever.”
At home, Margaret unearthed an old sewing machine.
“My mother’s. Thirty years old, but sews like new. Ready?”
The first week, Emily only unpicked stitches. Margaret brooked no flaws—the slightest wobble meant starting anew.
“Your hands grow from the wrong place,” she grumbled. “How’ll you keep house if you can’t sew straight?”
“I’m trying!”
“Try harder. At your age, I clothed the whole family.”
But bit by bit, Emily improved. Evenings, with Thomas at work, they sewed by lamplight as Margaret shared stories.
“Met John at the community centre. He played accordion—such hands! Could fix anything… Why did he go so soon?”
“His heart. Worked himself to death. ‘A man provides,’ he’d say. And did.”
“You loved him dearly.”
“Love him,” Margaret corrected. “Still. That’s why I fear for Thomas—breaking his back for you.”
“He won’t. We’ll share it.”
“We’ll see,” Margaret said skeptically.
Two weeks before the wedding, the dress neared completion. Only lace and final fittings remained.
“Stand on the stool,” Margaret ordered. “Let’s adjust the hem.”
Emily gasped at her reflection—a proper bride, every curve flattered.
“Lovely,” Margaret approved. “Good as shop-bought.”
“I can’t thank you enough—”
“Don’t. A week’s work left.”
But her tone had warmed.
On the day, Margaret helped Emily dress.
“Hold still. There—the veil’s fixed.As Emily stepped out into the sunlight, she glanced back one last time and saw Margaret standing by the window, clutching her old gown to her chest—not in sorrow, but in quiet triumph, as if passing a torch to the future.
