**The Wedding Dress**
“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, her fingers white-knuckled on the frame.
Emily turned, the zip still halfway up her back. The ivory satin clung to her slender figure, nipping in at the waist before cascading to the floor in elegant pleats.
“Margaret, I—I just wanted to see if it suited me,” she stammered, blushing furiously. “James said it would be fine—”
“James said?!” Her mother-in-law stormed forward, fists clenched. “My son has no right to let you touch my things! That dress is sacred to me! Do you understand? Sacred!”
Emily hurried to undo the zip, but it snagged. The more she tugged, the more stubbornly it stuck.
“Margaret, please help—I can’t get it off—”
“Don’t you dare rip it!” the woman shrieked. “If you ruin this, I’ll never forgive you! Hold still!”
Margaret’s fingers shook as she carefully worked the zip free. Emily could feel the tension radiating from the wiry woman with her hair scraped into a tight bun.
“Do you even comprehend what this is?” Margaret whispered, easing the dress off Emily’s shoulders. “It’s not just fabric. I married James’s father in this… God rest his soul.”
Silently, Emily pulled on her plain jumper. In the mirror, she watched Margaret smooth every wrinkle from the dress, checking for damage.
“I’m sorry,” Emily said softly. “I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just—the wedding’s in a month, and I can’t afford a dress—”
Margaret turned sharply.
“Then who’s forcing you to marry? Expecting my son to support you? He’s still a boy himself!”
“We love each other,” Emily murmured.
“Love!” Margaret scoffed. “Love won’t pay rent or feed children! I thought I was in love too, and I spent my whole life scraping by!”
Footsteps sounded in the hall, and James appeared—tall, sandy-haired, instantly sensing the tension.
“What’s happened? Mum, why are you so red?”
“Ask your fiancée what she’s been up to!” Margaret snapped, hanging the dress back in the wardrobe with a sharp slam.
James glanced between them. “Em, you tried the dress on?”
“You said it would be okay!”
“I thought she’d be out,” he admitted weakly.
“I see!” Margaret threw her hands up. “Scheming behind my back, in my own home!”
“Mum, relax! It’s just a dress—it’s not like anyone’s using it!”
The silence was thick. Slowly, Margaret turned to her son, and Emily saw the pain in her eyes—old and deep.
“No one’s using it? Right. So I’m useless too, and my memories, and everything I hold dear—”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“You know what, James?” Margaret straightened. “Live as you please. But don’t touch my dress. Save up and buy your own.”
She left, the kitchen door banging shut behind her.
“Well, we’re in trouble now,” James sighed. “She won’t speak to me for a month.”
“James, why is she like this? I didn’t mean any harm—”
He rubbed his face. “Long story, Em. After Dad died… she changed. Used to be cheerful. Now? She guards his things like a museum. And that dress… she takes it out sometimes, talks to it—”
“Talks to it?”
“Yeah. Thinks I don’t hear. Once, when I was little, I overheard. She’d tell it how much she missed him… creepy, but I get it.”
Emily sat beside him. “Should I talk to her? Apologise properly?”
“Try. Gently. She’s on the warpath.”
In the kitchen, Margaret was viciously chopping vegetables, the knife thumping like an axe.
“Margaret… may I come in?”
“Since you’re here,” she muttered.
Emily hesitated. “I wanted to say sorry. I never meant to hurt you. It’s just… my mum died when I was little, and my aunt who raised me—money’s tight. I thought—”
“Thought you’d freeload,” Margaret grumbled.
“No! I thought… maybe you’d see me as a daughter—”
Margaret froze. “A daughter? That’s earned, not given!”
“Then tell me how,” Emily whispered. “I’ll do anything.”
With a sigh, Margaret set the knife down. “Sit. I’ll tell you about the dress.”
She spoke softly—how she’d married at nineteen, how she and her mother had sewn it stitch by stitch for months. “Mum said, ‘Margaret, remember this day. It’ll only happen once.’ And she was right. James’s father carried me over the threshold in this dress… and then life took over. Work, bills, raising James…” Her voice trailed off. “Last time I wore it was a week before he died. He looked at me like… like he was saying goodbye.”
Emily swallowed. “I understand now. I’m so sorry.”
Margaret waved her off. “Youth. You don’t know real memories yet.”
“Could I… see your wedding photos?”
Surprised, Margaret fetched an album. They paged through faded pictures—a young Margaret beaming in white, a dark-haired man beside her.
“Beautiful couple,” Emily said.
“We were.” A pause. “What if… we made your dress together? You’ve got the skill—”
Margaret eyed her. “Time’s short. And good fabric costs.”
“I’ve saved a bit. Not enough for a shop dress, but for material… if you’d help?”
Margaret sighed. “Fine. But I’m strict. No crooked seams.”
By the wedding day, the dress was perfect. As Margaret fastened Emily’s veil, she suddenly hugged her. “Be happy, love. And look after my boy.”
“Love?” Emily blinked.
“Well, you’re wearing my dress, joining my family…” Margaret smiled. “Makes you mine.”
Leaving, Emily glanced back. Margaret stood at the window, her old wedding dress in her hands.
“James—is she crying?”
He grinned. “Nah. Just… letting go of the past. Welcoming the future.”
