My late wife, Linda, was a professional seamstress. Six months before cancer took her, she started secretly working on something. After her funeral, I found out what it was — she’d spent nearly 500 hours recreating our daughter Sammy’s dream wedding dress by hand. She bought fine silk, Swarovski crystals, and French lace — spending $12,000 of her own money. Her sister Amy finished it after she passed, and when we saw the finished dress, we cried. “I can feel Mom in every thread,” Sammy said.
We kept the dress safe in the guest room. Last week, my sister Diane visited with her 16-year-old daughter, Molly. Molly fell in love with the dress and asked to try it on. I said no — wrong size, delicate, priceless. She seemed disappointed but said nothing more.
The next morning, Diane and I went out briefly. When we returned, we heard screaming. In the guest room, Molly was trapped in the dress, seams ripped open, silk shredded, beads scattered. In her hand: fabric scissors. Instead of calling for help, she’d tried to cut herself out of Linda’s final gift.
Sammy came home and saw the destroyed dress. Her cry was the same one I heard at her mother’s funeral. Molly muttered, “It’s just a dress.” Diane’s face turned to stone. She called Amy, who estimated $6,000 to try salvaging parts of it — but the original was gone forever.
Diane made Molly pay. She had nearly $8,000 saved for a car. She screamed, cried, said it was “unfair,” but in the end, she transferred the money. She still hasn’t truly apologized.
Amy is trying to rebuild the dress from the pieces. It will never be the same, but the love Linda sewed into it can’t be cut away. And Molly learned — when you destroy something sacred, you face the consequences.
