My Mother-in-Law Burned My Wedding Dress Just a Day Before the Ceremony and Declared I Wasn’t Worthy of Her Son…

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 9 minViews 3

The air in the garden felt like itd stopped ticking. It was heavy, almost oily, as if the summer scents were mixed with something bitter the sharp bite of melted plastic and a sweet, rotten smoke that made my stomach turn, like an echo of some longforgotten nightmare slipping out from a locked door in my memory. It was so quiet even the leaves didnt rustle, as if they were scared of breaking this eerie calm.

Harry still wasnt answering. His phone kept dropping the call the second it rang, as if it didnt want us to connect at all. Hed promised hed be here half an hour ago. We were supposed to pick up the last bits for tomorrowour wedding day, the one Id been dreaming about for years, crying over, planning every detail. Instead of his smiling face, the screen just said Call ended.

I stepped out onto the patio, feeling anxiety creep up my chest. Behind the house, tucked away under the old gazebo, hung my wedding dress in a big cloth bag, hanging from a metal rod. Next to it, by a rusted black barrel that was puffing out a thin grey smoke, stood Mrs. Agnes Whitaker. She was calmly snipping roses, her movements measured, almost mechanical, like shed been doing this forever and nothing extraordinary was happening around her.

MrsWhitaker? I called, trying to keep my voice steady even though I was shaking inside. Are you lighting something? Theres a strange, acrid smell.

She didnt turn. She paused just long enough for the secateur to hover over a bud, then sliced off a stray stem.

Im burning the excess, dear Ethel, she said softly, almost tenderly. Anything that could spoil a new life. You have to get rid of the rubbish before it roots itself in your home.

My heart sank. I took a few steps forward and the smell grew unbearable. Nausea rose in my throat when I saw, amid the charred pieces of fabric, something that could never belong in this nightmare.

The edge of the melted lacethe very same design Mom and I had chosen from that tiny boutique on the riverbank. Tiny beads scattered like dead teeth on the ash. My wedding. My dress. My dream.

Blood drained from my face. Everything went dark, surrounded by a dead silence. I stared at the wreckage of my future, at what just a day ago had been the symbol of my happiness.

This, the words got stuck, like needles in my throat.

Yes, she finally said, turning. Her face was calm, carefree, as if shed just done a good deed.

Not a hint of remorse. No drop of fear or guilt. Just a cold, hard certainty, the kind a selfappointed judge carries.

I burned your wedding dress.

Her gaze pinned me to the spot. She walked toward me and I instinctively stepped back. Every flicker of emotion on my face was an open book to her.

Why? I whispered, unable to form any more words.

You didnt pass the test, love. I gave you a chance. I left you in the house with the most important thing for a brideher dress. And you didnt even bother to take it straight away. You left it hanging like rubbish.

I trusted you! I shouted, my voice cracking. Were family! The wedding is tomorrow!

Exactly. Tomorrow. I still have a little time to set things right.

She talked about it like it was a grocery list, as if she were discussing the weather. Then she added a line that turned me into a stone statue:

I did it because youre not worthy of my son. I wont let him make a mistake hell regret for the rest of his life.

Her words rang in my head. I looked at the woman Id once called a second mother and realised shed declared war on mewithout me even knowing the battle had already begun.

Just then Harry burst in, the gate creaking behind him. He had a guilty grin, eyes full of confusion.

Sorry Im late. Dad asked me to sort some paperwork. Are you ready, Ethel? Whats happening?

He saw my pale face, the mother by the barrel. His grin faded, replaced by worry.

Mum? Whats going on?

MrsWhitaker dropped the secateur into a basket, straightened up and looked at her son with a mix of sorrow and steel.

Son, Ive saved you from a huge mess. The wedding wont happen.

What do you meanwont happen? Harry stared between us. Is this a joke? Ethel, say something!

I pointed at the barrel. He walked over, peered inside, and his shoulders tensed. He turned, and there was real, deep pain in his eyes.

Mum what did you

The thing I had to do. Your bride left her dress unattended. Its a sign. She doesnt respect what should be sacred. She wont respect you or our family.

That was Ethels dress! Our wedding dress! Have you gone mad?!

On the contrary, son. Ive never been clearer.

He reached out, but recoiled as if burned. Im saving your life. Shes not right for you.

In that instant the noise in my head fell silent. I stared straight into Harrys eyes.

Your mother burned my dress. She said I wasnt worthy of you and then lied about feeling ill

Harry looked at his mother, torn between love for the woman who raised him and shock at her horrific act. He seemed lost, broken.

Mum how could you?

Dont worry, Ive taken care of everything, she said calmly. Ive already called all the guests and told them the wedding is cancelled by mutual agreement, to avoid any gossip.

The world spun. She hadnt just destroyed a dress; shed erased our future, crossed it out like some unwanted appointment on a packed calendar.

Harry clutched his head. You called the guests? You said the wedding wont happen? Without us?

It was the necessary decision, she cut in. Youll thank me later, when you realise what disaster I saved you from.

I looked at Harry. This was the momentthe turning point that would decide everything. He lifted his gaze to me, full of desperation, fear, and confusion, but not resolve. He was the product of his mothers will.

And then I understood: shed won, not just because she burned the dress, but because shed raised a man who, in the crucial moment, saw me as a problem to be fixed rather than someone to protect.

Harrys helpless stare was the final drop. All the shock and hurt melted away, leaving a crystalcold clarity.

I took a deep breath and then smiled.

Harry flinched. Even MrsWhitaker raised an eyebrow, surprised. My smile felt like a challenge.

You know, MrsWhitaker, I said calmly, almost friendly, you were right after all.

She looked taken aback. Harry stared at me as if Id spoken a foreign language.

What are you on about? he muttered.

I turned to him.

Your mums right. Im not the one you need. I deserve a man wholl stand by me, even if the whole world, even his own mother, turns against me.

Youre waiting for me to cry, so your mum can triumph.

I glanced back at MrsWhitaker.

Thank you, I said sincerely. You cant imagine the nightmare you saved me from. You only burned a piece of fabric, and I almost burned my whole life by getting involved with your son.

For the first time, confusion flickered across her face. She was used to tears and drama, not this quiet gratitude.

What are you babbling about? she hissed.

The truth, I shrugged. And one more thingsince the weddings off, the gifts need to be returned.

I slipped the tiny diamond ring off my fingerthe one Harry had given me six months ago on a rooftop with the city lights twinkling below.

I didnt give it back to him. I walked over to the barrel of ash.

Ethel, no! Harry shouted, finally realizing what I was about to do.

But it was too late. I spread my fingers, and the ring glittered one last time before disappearing into the grey ash and burnt fabric.

Search for it. Maybe its another signa test of how strong your relationship really is, I said with a smile, turning toward the gate.

I walked out without looking back, hearing Harrys muffled cries and his mothers angry shouts fade into background noise.

Once on the street, I fished my phone out. My hands tremblednot from sadness but from adrenaline.

I opened my contacts, found my best friends numbermy wouldbe bridesmaid.

Lucy? Hey, Ive had a little change of plans, I said into the voicememo, feeling a smile return to my lips.

The weddings off tomorrow, but the partys on. Gather the girls. Weve got a proper reason to celebratemy freedom.

And thats where I am, laughing into the phone, feeling oddly relieved.

Dandelion Jam After a snowy but gentle winter with no harsh frosts, the cold has grown tiresome and the longing for green leaves, colourful blossoms, and the chance to cast off heavy coats fills the air. Spring arrives in a small English town, and Tessa, who has lived in her cosy five-storey flat for years, awaits nature’s awakening. Looking down from her third-floor window, Tessa muses, “With these warm spring days, the town feels alive after its long winter slumber. Even the cars grumble differently and the local market has new energy. Bright jackets and coats everywhere, and the birds wake us before our alarms. Ah, spring is wonderful, and summer will be even better…” Nowadays, Tessa shares her flat with her granddaughter Violet, a fourth-year student at the primary school. Violet’s parents—both doctors—moved to Africa for work a year ago, leaving their daughter in Tessa’s care. “Mum, we trust you to look after our Violet. We know she’ll be happy with you,” Tessa’s daughter said when they left. “Of course I’ll take care of her—she’ll keep me company in retirement. Off you go, we’ll be fine,” Tessa replied. “Hurrah, Granny! Now we’ll really live – we’ll go to the park all the time. Mum and Dad are always busy. They never have time,” Violet cheered. After breakfast and seeing Violet off to school, Tessa loses track of the morning in a flurry of chores. “I’ll pop to the shop before Violet gets home from school—I promised her something sweet for her good grades,” she thinks, grabbing her shopping bag. Outside, the neighbourhood bench is already occupied by two locals—Mrs. Simmons, an ageless woman of at least seventy (or perhaps more, as she keeps her birth year secret), living alone in a ground-floor flat, and Mrs. Valentina, seventy-five, vivacious, well-read, and a joyful contrast to the ever-complaining Mrs. Simmons. As soon as the sun returns and the snow melts, this bench is rarely empty—Mrs. Simmons and Mrs. Valentina are regulars, armed with cushions to ward off the lingering chill, busy keeping tabs on the world around them. Tessa sometimes joins them to chat about news, magazine stories, or television shows, with Mrs. Simmons inevitably remarking on her blood pressure. “Morning ladies,” Tessa greets them cheerfully. “On duty already?” “Morning, Tess. Duty calls, otherwise we’d get detention,” Mrs. Simmons replies, eyeing Tessa’s bag. “Off to the shops?” “Just for a treat before Violet gets back from school,” Tessa says, moving on. The day passes with familiar rhythm—school pick-up, lunch, homework, and chores. Violet heads to her dance class, a passion she’s followed for six years, and Tessa beams with pride for her talented granddaughter. Tessa waits on the bench for Violet’s return, joined by Mr. George Ilchester from the second floor. “Lonely out here?” he asks. “How could I be lonely on a day like this? Spring is gorgeous,” Tessa replies. They chat about the sunshine, birdsong, and golden coltsfoot flowers, bright as tiny suns. Suddenly, Violet surprises them, leaping onto Tessa’s neck with a playful bark. “You little rascal! You nearly scared me to death!” Tessa laughs. “Plenty of time before that!” George Ilchester jokes. Tessa tempts Violet inside with grated carrots and sugar, her favourite meatballs waiting. Mr. Ilchester, enticed by the talk of food, heads home too, promising a later stroll. That evening, Tessa returns to the bench. Mr. Ilchester waits, the regular ladies gone to dinner. From that night, their friendship grows—they walk to the park, read newspapers, swap recipes and stories, and share memories. George Ilchester has known hardship; widowed young, he raised his daughter Vera alone, juggling two jobs. As Vera grew and moved away, visits became rare, her affection cold. Divorce left her raising a son alone. “Tess, my daughter’s coming to visit in two days. Just called out of the blue…” George confides. “Strange, we haven’t spoken in years.” “Maybe she misses you. In time, family means more,” Tessa suggests. Vera’s visit is brief and businesslike. She pressures George to sell his flat and move in with her, claiming he doesn’t need so much space. George refuses, uncomfortable with leaving his home for a brisk, joyless household. Vera goes to Tessa, asking her to persuade George to sell. Upon receiving a gentle refusal, Vera grows furious, accusing Tessa of wanting the flat for herself—a spiteful tirade about Tessa and George together, sharing walks and dandelion lore, and she storms out. Tessa feels embarrassed, worried the neighbours heard Vera’s accusations, and avoids George after Vera’s departure. But life has its way of mending fences. Returning from the shop, Tessa finds George by the door, weaving a dandelion crown. “Tessa, don’t run—I need to say sorry for Vera,” he says quietly. “She said awful things, but I’ll always be here for my grandson. Have this dandelion wreath—and you must try my dandelion jam, it’s delicious and healthy. Brilliant in salads too,” he smiles. They make a salad together and enjoy tea with dandelion jam, which Tessa finds utterly delightful. That evening, they return to the park with their favourite magazine, reading on the bench beneath the old English lime tree, losing themselves in conversation, content together. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and supporting me. Wishing you happiness always!

Dandelion Jam Winter’s snowy blanket finally melted away—no hard frosts this year, just a gentle, white season. Yet as the last traces faded, the longing for lush green leaves, vivid blossoms, and the chance to shed bulky coats grew stronger. Spring arrived in the small English town, and Tessa, who adored the season’s awakening, watched from her third-floor window: — With the first warm days, the whole town seems to stir after a long hibernation. Even the rumble of lorries sounds livelier, and the market buzzes with fresh energy. People stride about in colourful jackets and coats, birds are our morning alarm clocks now—spring is wonderful, and summer will be even better… Tessa had lived in her five-story block for years, now sharing it with her granddaughter, Violet, a year-four student. Violet’s parents—both doctors—had moved to Africa on a work contract, leaving their daughter in Grandma’s care. — Mum, we’re entrusting Violet to you. We know you’ll mind her well, pulling her all the way to Africa doesn’t make sense, said Tessa’s daughter. — Of course I’ll look after her—I’ll enjoy her company in retirement. Off you go, Violet and I will be just fine here, replied Tessa. — Hooray, Grandma! We’ll have so much fun together, walking in the park and spending time—Mum and Dad are always busy. They never have time for me, cheered Violet. After sending Violet off to school with breakfast, Tessa busied herself with chores, the hours slipping by unnoticed. — I’ll pop to the shop before Violet comes flying home from school—promised her something sweet for her good marks, Tessa thought, grabbing her bag and heading out. Outside on the chilly bench—cushioned for warmth—sat two neighbours. Mrs Simmons, whose real age was anyone’s guess (she kept that secret), lived on the ground floor, and Mrs Valery, seventy-five, well-read, boisterous, the cheerful opposite of Simmons, who found fault with everything. As soon as the snow melted and the sun returned, this bench was never empty, especially with Simmons and Valery as regulars—chatting all day long, knowing everyone’s business. Tessa sometimes joined in, swapping news and TV stories, Simmons always keen to discuss her blood pressure. — Morning, ladies, smiled Tessa. On duty, are we? — Morning, Tess. Of course, duty calls! Off to the shop, I see? Simmons asked, spying her bag. — That’s right, I promised Violet a treat for her top marks. Off I go, said Tessa, not lingering. The day passed in its usual way—school run, lunch, homework, chores, TV. — Grandma, I’m off to dance club! called Violet, rucksack and mobile in hand. She’d danced for six years, performing at every event, and Tessa was ever proud. — All right, darling, go and have fun, Tessa said, seeing her off. That evening, Tessa sat alone on the bench, waiting for Violet. — Lonely out here? asked Mr Edgar from the second floor, joining her. — Who could be lonely in weather like this? Spring’s here, birds singing, the world’s turning green—those buttercups look just like tiny suns, smiled Edgar, and Tessa agreed. Just then Violet dashed up with a surprise shout: — Woof woof! — You little rascal, gave me a fright! laughed Tessa. — Don’t start talking about old age, smiled Edgar, gently clapping her shoulder. — Come on in, rascal. I grated carrot with sugar for you, after all that dancing, and made your favourite cottage pie, Tessa said affectionately. Edgar got up too. — All this talk of cottage pie’s made me hungry! I’ll nip in for a bite. Maybe we’ll catch up later on the bench, or perhaps a stroll? said Edgar. — I can’t promise—much to do, but we’ll see… Still, Tessa came out later to the bench—and found Edgar waiting. The regulars were gone. — Simmons and Valery just left to eat, Edgar announced cheerily. From then on, Tessa and Edgar often met—sometimes strolling to the park across the road, reading the newspaper together, swopping stories and recipes. Edgar had his own trials—widowed young, he’d raised his daughter alone, working two jobs so Vera wanted for nothing, but he was rarely home. Vera grew up, married, moved cities, had a son—came to visit a few times and nothing more, her visits were never joyful. After fifteen years, she divorced and raised her son alone. — Tess, my daughter’s coming in two days, rang this morning. Odd… We haven’t spoken in years, said Edgar—they’d long been on first-name terms, talking freely. — Maybe she’s missing you—at a certain age, people need family close, suggested Tessa. — I doubt it… Vera arrived, brusque and serious. Edgar braced for a tough conversation. — Dad, I’m here on business. Let’s sell your flat, you move in with us, live with your grandson—it’ll be better, Vera said, her tone firm, plans made. But Edgar shrank from it—he didn’t want to uproot to a strange city under brooding supervision. He refused, citing habits and independence. Vera wasn’t deterred. Discovering his friendship with Tessa, she paid a visit. After tea and treats (including golden jam), Vera got down to business. — I see you and my father are close. Could you persuade him in an important matter? — What might that be? — Help me convince him to sell—why does he need so much space alone? Can’t he think of others? she snapped. Tessa was surprised by Vera’s coldness and refused. Furious, Vera lost composure: — Well, I see… Maybe you want the flat for yourself! Found a lonely old man, lining up an inheritance for your granddaughter… Romance on benches, chatting about dandelions! Two sweet old dandelions—you’ve probably filed for marriage already! But let me warn you—nothing will come of it, she threatened, switching to “you” as she shrieked, slamming the door. Embarrassed, Tessa worried the neighbours had overheard. Vera soon left, and Tessa started avoiding Edgar—ducking home whenever she saw him. And Yet, Tea With Dandelion Jam But life has its own plans. One day, heading home from the shop, Tessa found Edgar by the entrance, weaving a garland of yellow dandelions. — Tessa, don’t run—please, stay a moment. I’m sorry for my daughter; I know what she said—she’s gone now and claims she has no father left. But… Anyway, here—take this half-made dandelion crown. And I’ve made dandelion jam! Very healthy and delicious—you simply must try it. They’re great in salad too, Edgar said with a warm smile. After chatting about the wonders of dandelions, they made a salad together. Tessa tasted the jam with tea that evening—and loved it. Later, they walked to the park. — I’ve got the latest issue of our favourite magazine—shall we read on our bench under the old lime tree? Tessa sat next to Edgar, and laughter flowed. Conversation sparkled on, the rest of the world forgotten. Together, everything felt right. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and supporting me. Wishing you all the best in life!

No One Left to Talk To: A Story “Mum, what are you saying? How can you say there’s no one to talk to? I ring you twice a day,” her daughter asked, tiredly. “Oh no, sweetheart, that’s not what I meant,” Nina sighed sadly. “It’s just… I haven’t any friends or acquaintances my own age left—no one from my time.” “Mum, don’t be silly. You’ve still got your school friend Irene. Honestly, you’re so modern and look much younger than you are. Really, Mum, what’s got into you?” her daughter replied, upset. “You know Irene’s got asthma—she gets fits of coughing on the phone. And she lives all the way the other side of town. There were three of us, remember? I told you – Marinka’s been gone for years. Yesterday, Tanya from next door popped round. She’s a good woman, often visits. She even brought over some buns she’d baked for her own family. Told me about her children and grandkids. She’s got grandchildren too, although she’s about fifteen years younger than me. But her memories of childhood and school are completely different from mine. I do so wish I had someone my own age to talk to,” Nina said to her daughter, fully aware that her daughter wouldn’t understand. She was still young. Her time hadn’t passed, it was still out there beyond the window. She didn’t feel this pull to reminisce. Svetlana was a good, caring girl—it wasn’t her fault. “Mum, I’ve got tickets for Tuesday night—remember how you wanted to go? Stop being down, come on and wear that burgundy dress—you look amazing in it!” “All right, darling, it’s fine, I don’t know what’s come over me—goodnight, we’ll talk tomorrow. Get an early night for once, you never sleep enough,” Nina changed the subject. “Yes, Mum, goodnight,” Svetlana said and hung up. Nina gazed silently at the twinkling lights in the evening darkness…. Year 11—it was spring then too. So many plans. How recent it all seemed. Her friend Irene liked Serge Malory from their form. And Serge had liked her, Nina. He would call her evenings on the home phone, ask her out to walk. But Nina had only thought of him as a friend—why give him false hope? Later Serge joined the army. Came back and married. He lived in Irene’s old building. And his phone back then—it was a landline. The number… Nina dialled the old, half-remembered sequence. The ring didn’t come at once, then someone picked up, rustling could be heard, and then a quiet male voice answered: “Hello, I’m listening.” Maybe it was too late—why had she called him? Maybe Serge didn’t even remember her, or maybe it wasn’t him at all. “Good evening,” Nina’s voice croaked slightly with nerves. There was more static and suddenly she heard an astonished: “Nina? Is that really you? Of course it is. I’d never forget your voice. How on earth did you find me? I was just here by chance…” “Serge! You recognised me!” A flood of joyful memories overwhelmed her. No one had called her by her first name in years—only “Mum,” “Granny,” or “Mrs Antrobus.” Well, except maybe Irene. But just “Nina” sounded so wonderful, like spring, as if those years had never passed at all. “Nina, how are you these days? I’m so glad to hear you,” he said, and she felt an unexpected warmth. She’d been afraid he wouldn’t recognise her—or that she’d be bothering him. “Do you remember Year 11? When Vicky Vasutin and I took you and Irene out on that rowboat? He blistered his hands on the oars and tried to hide it. And then we all ate ice cream on the promenade while the music played,” Serge’s voice was dreamy and far away. “I remember, of course I do,” Nina laughed happily, “and that time the whole form went camping in the woods—you remember how we couldn’t get the tins open, and we were all starving!” “Oh, yes,” Serge replied, joining in her laughter. “And Vicky finally opened them, and then we sang songs round the campfire with the guitar—you remember? That’s when I decided I’d learn guitar.” “And did you?” Nina’s voice sparkled with youth as forgotten memories returned. Serge seemed to revive their shared past, more and more details tumbling out. “And how about now?” Serge asked, then answered himself, “But why am I asking—your voice says it all, you must be happy. Children, grandchildren? Still writing poetry? I remember! ‘Fade into night and return with the dawn’—so full of life! You always were a ray of sunshine! Just being around you could warm the coldest soul. Your family’s lucky—having a mum and gran like you is a treasure.” “Oh, Serge, don’t flatter me! My time’s past… I—” He interrupted: “Don’t say that! Your energy just about melted my phone! I’m joking, of course. I can’t believe you’ve lost your zest for life—it doesn’t suit you. So, Nina, your time isn’t up yet. Live, and be happy. The sun shines for you. And the breeze chases clouds across the sky for you. And the birds sing for you!” “Serge, such a romantic—you always were. But what about you? I’ve only talked of myself…,” but suddenly the phone crackled, popped and went dead. Nina sat holding the receiver. She thought about calling back, but decided it was too late, too much. Another time, perhaps. They’d talked so well, remembered so much… A sharp ring startled her. Granddaughter. “Hi, Dasha, yes, still awake. What did your mum say? No, I’m in a wonderful mood. Your mum and I are going to a concert. Will you drop by tomorrow? Lovely, see you then.” In high spirits, Nina went to bed. In her head were so many plans! As she drifted off, she formed lines for a new poem. In the morning, she decided to visit Irene. Only a few tram stops—she certainly wasn’t an old crock yet. Irene was delighted: “Finally! You’ve been promising for ages. Is that an apricot cake? My favourite! So, tell me all—” Irene coughed, holding her chest, but waved it aside. “It’s fine, new inhaler—it’s helping. Let’s get the tea on. Nina, you look years younger. What’s your secret?” “I don’t know—a fifth youth! Imagine, I phoned Serge Malory by accident last night. Do you remember—your crush in Year 11? He began reminiscing, I’d forgotten most of it. Why are you quiet, Irene, another attack coming on?” Irene sat pale, silent, and stared at her friend, then whispered: “Nina—you didn’t know? Serge died—it’s been a year now. He’d moved ages ago, lived in another part of town.” “Really? How can that be? But who did I talk to? He remembered every detail of our youth. I was so low before—and after our chat, I felt alive again, full of life and hope… How can that be?” Nina couldn’t believe Serge was gone: “It was his voice, I know it. He said such wonderful things: ‘The sun shines for you. The breeze chases clouds for you. The birds sing for you!’” Irene shook her head, as if unsure about Nina’s story. Then she said, “Nina, I don’t know how, but it seems it really was him. Those were his words, his way. Serge loved you. I think he wanted to lift you up—from wherever he is now. Looks like he succeeded. I haven’t seen you so lively in years. One day, someone will gather together all the tattered pieces of your heart. And you’ll finally remember what it is to be—simply happy.”