“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 knuckles white against the doorframe.
Emily turned, the zip still halfway up her back. The white satin dress clung to her slender frame, nipping at her waist before cascading to the floor in delicate folds.
“Margaret, I—I just wanted to see if it suited me,” she stammered, her cheeks flushing scarlet. “William said it would be alright…”
“William said?” Her mother-in-law stormed into the room, fists clenched. “My son had no right to let you touch my things! This dress is sacred to me! Do you understand? Sacred!”
Emily fumbled with the zip, but it jammed. The more she tugged, the more stubbornly it stuck.
“Margaret, please help—I can’t get it off—”
“Don’t you dare tear it!” the woman shrieked. “If you ruin it, I’ll never forgive you! Stand still!”
Her fingers shook as she carefully worked the zip free. Emily could feel the tension radiating from her—from the rigid bun in her hair to the sharp set of her shoulders.
“Do you even know what this is?” Margaret whispered, gently easing the dress off Emily’s shoulders. “It’s not just fabric. I married William’s father in this dress… God rest his soul…”
Silently, Emily pulled on her plain jumper. In the mirror, she watched Margaret smoothing every crease, checking for damage.
“I’m sorry,” Emily murmured. “I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just… the wedding’s in a month, and I can’t afford a dress…”
Margaret spun around. “Then who’s forcing you to marry if you haven’t a penny to your name? Expecting my son to provide everything? He’s still a boy!”
“We love each other,” Emily whispered.
“Love!” Margaret scoffed. “Love won’t pay rent or feed children! I thought I loved once, too, and I spent my whole life scraping by!”
Footsteps sounded in the hall, and William appeared—tall, fair-haired, instantly sensing the tension. “What’s happened? Mum, why are you so red?”
“Ask your fiancée what she’s been up to!” Margaret shoved the dress back into the wardrobe and slammed the door.
William glanced between them. “Em, you tried on the dress?”
“I told you I wanted to see it… You said she wouldn’t mind…”
“I thought she’d be out,” he admitted weakly.
“Oh, brilliant!” Margaret threw her hands up. “Plotting behind my back in my own home with my things!”
“Mum, come on, it’s just a dress collecting dust! Who even needs it?”
The room went silent. Margaret turned slowly, and Emily saw the pain—old and deep—flash across her face.
“No one needs it?” Her voice was deadly quiet. “Right. So I’m not needed either. Nor my memories, nor the things I hold dear…”
“Mum, I didn’t mean it like that—”
“Here’s what you’ll do, son,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “Live as you please. But keep your hands off my dress. Save up and buy your own.”
She marched out, and the kitchen door slammed behind her.
“We’re in trouble now,” William sighed. “She won’t speak to me for weeks.”
“Will, why is she like this? I didn’t do anything wrong…”
He sank onto the bed, rubbing his face. “It’s a long story, Em. After Dad died… she changed. Used to be full of laughter. Now she keeps his things like they’re museum pieces. And that dress… She takes it out sometimes, strokes it, talks to it…”
“Talks to it?”
“Yeah. Thinks I don’t hear. I caught her once as a kid. Telling 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? Apologise properly?”
“You can try. Just be careful. She’s in a mood…”
In the kitchen, Margaret was chopping vegetables so violently the knife thudded like an axe.
“Margaret? Can I come in?”
“Might as well,” she muttered without looking up.
Emily hesitated, then approached. “I wanted to say sorry. I really didn’t mean to hurt you. It’s just… my mum died when I was little, and my aunt who raised me isn’t well off. I thought—”
“Thought you’d get something for free,” Margaret snapped.
“No! I thought—” Emily flushed. “Maybe you’d treat me like a daughter…”
Margaret froze, then glared at her. “A daughter? You’ve got to earn that!”
“How? Tell me what to do, and I’ll try…”
Margaret set down the knife, wiped her hands. “Fine. Sit. I’ll tell you about this dress.”
Emily obeyed.
“I was nineteen when I married William’s father. Handsome man, all the girls fancied him. But he chose me. This dress—my mother and I spent three months sewing it. Every bead stitched by hand. She said, ‘Margaret, remember this day—it’s the one time you’ll feel like a princess.’ And she was right.” Her voice softened. “Robert—William’s dad—carried me over the threshold in this very dress. Said I was the loveliest bride he’d ever seen. Then life happened. Work, bills, William… The dress went into storage.”
“You never wore it again?”
“I did. Every anniversary. Robert laughed—‘Still a girl at heart!’ But I loved feeling like a bride again… Last time I wore it was a week before he died. The way he looked at me… Like he was saying goodbye.”
She fell silent, staring out the window.
“Now you see why?”
Emily nodded. “I shouldn’t have touched it.”
Margaret waved a hand. “You’re young. What do you know of real memories?”
“Could I… see your wedding photos?” Emily ventured.
“Why?”
“I wondered if William looks like his dad.”
Margaret fetched an album. They bent over yellowed photos—a young Margaret beaming in white lace, a dark-haired man beside her.
“You made a lovely couple,” Emily said.
“We did.” Margaret sighed. “This was at the registry office… This one at the reception…”
“Margaret… what if we made my dress together? You’re so talented—look what you created!”
She pursed her lips. “Not much time left… And good fabric costs—”
“I’ve saved a bit. Enough for material if you help…”
“Fine,” Margaret relented. “But I’m strict. No crooked seams.”
“I’ll work hard!”
William peered in. “Mum, you’re not cross with Em anymore?”
“We’ll manage,” she said briskly. “Tomorrow we’ll buy fabric. And you—think where you’ll live. My flat’s too small.”
“Mum—”
“A man provides, son. He doesn’t lean on his mother.”
The next morning at the market, Margaret inspected every bolt of satin before choosing.
“This one. Good weight, subtle sheen. And this lace for trim.”
“It’s expensive,” Emily fretted.
“No skimping on weddings. You’ll stare at these photos forever.”
At home, Margaret hauled out an old sewing machine.
“My mother’s. Thirty years old, still perfect. Ready?”
The first week was all unpicking. Margaret was merciless—the slightest wobble in a seam meant starting over.
“You’ve got two left hands,” 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—husband, in-laws, myself…”
But slowly, Emily improved. Evenings found them bent under the lamp as Margaret reminisced.
“Met Robert at the community centre. He played the accordion in the amateur dramatics. Such hands—could fix anything… Why’d he die so young?”
“Heart gave out. Worked himself to the bone. ‘A man provides,’ he’d say. Well, he did—and it killed him.”
“You loved him dearly.”
“Still do.” Margaret’s voice cracked. “And I fear William will break himself the same way.”
“He won’t. We’ll share everything.”
“We’ll see,” she said skeptically. “Youth always says that.”
A fortnight before the wedding, the dress neared completion. Only the lace and final fitting remained.
“Stand on the stool,” Margaret ordered. “Let’s hem it.”
Emily gasped at her reflection—a proper bride, the dress flawless.
“Lovely,” Margaret approved. “Good as shop-bought.”
“Thank you! I can’t—”
“Don’t thank me yetOn the wedding day, as Emily walked down the aisle, she caught Margaret’s eye—now glistening with pride rather than tears—and knew the dress wasn’t just fabric anymore, but a bridge between past and future.
