I hung up, shaking with anger.

When I told Jared about the call, he was appalled. “What? No way. That’s your mom’s dress. I’ll talk to her.”

But when he confronted Sabrina, she spun the story. She told him I’d “promised” Brooke could borrow the dress, then “backed out out of spite.” She even cried, saying I was trying to ruin Brooke’s day.

“I don’t believe her,” Jared told me that night. “But she’s relentless. I’ll keep an eye out.”

Sabrina’s reaction was a warning. I should’ve changed the locks.

Two weeks later, we were a day away from Brooke’s wedding, with mine just around the corner. I came home from a quick grocery run and felt something was wrong. The front door was locked, but the deadbolt wasn’t turned.

My cat was hiding under the couch, something she only did when strangers came by.

I rushed to the closet, opened it, and froze.

It was empty. The garment bag was gone.

I tore through every drawer, every cabinet, screaming my mom’s name in desperation, as if she could somehow help me from beyond. I found nothing. My hands trembled as I tried to think.

Then it hit me—I knew who had taken it. No one else had a key but Jared. And he’d left his set at Sabrina’s house the weekend before during a family dinner. We hadn’t thought much of it then.

But now I realized Sabrina must have made a copy; she probably smirked as she pocketed it. Her “surprise visit” to “talk wedding plans” suddenly made sense.

She likely didn’t expect me to be home yet, since I’d left work early. She must’ve planned to snoop then, aiming to check out my wedding dress.

So she broke into my apartment, and suddenly every shadow felt like hers.

Jared was furious when I called and told him. When I pointed to Sabrina as the culprit, he called her, but she denied everything. Said maybe I “misplaced” it. Then she hung up.

The next day, I walked into Brooke’s wedding as a guest. The church was transformed, draped in white roses and glittering crystals. The room buzzed with excitement. I was still reeling from the dress theft as I sat in the back pew.

And then I saw her.

Brooke. She was wearing my mother’s wedding dress as she walked down the aisle!

The guests gasped in awe. Sabrina stood in the front row, smirking proudly, arms folded, chin high, like she’d pulled off a masterpiece. Brooke beamed like royalty.

I wanted to scream. My fists clenched so hard my knuckles turned white.

But I waited, because I knew something they didn’t.

“They should’ve listened,” I muttered under my breath.

And then it happened.

Halfway down the aisle, a sharp, unmistakable sound rang out—a loud, ripping tear that echoed. CRASH!

Brooke froze, her arms flailing. The dress had split down the side! Pearls scattered across the floor like rain. The lace sleeves shredded, and the train collapsed.

Guests gasped. Someone screamed. Phones popped up, flashes lighting up the church like a storm.

Brooke shrieked, “Mom! HELP ME! FIX THIS!” as the dress fell apart, sliding off her like a broken shell.

Sabrina rushed down the aisle, arms waving, yelling, “This is sabotage! She did this! She ruined you!” Her voice cracked through the church like shattering glass.

She spun toward me, pointing like I’d set the place on fire. “You! This was your fault! You wanted to humiliate her!”

I stood taller, the pew pressing against my legs. My heart pounded, but my voice came out calm and steady.

“No, Sabrina. I said no. You stole that dress. I was going to have it restored for myself. You said Brooke deserved it because she was younger and slimmer. Well… how’s that working out?”

The crowd gasped. Some shot Sabrina wide-eyed looks. A bridesmaid bit her lip, fighting a smirk.

See, what they didn’t know was that the dress was old. It was beautiful, yes, but fragile.

I had planned to have it restored, not just altered. The seams were weak, the silk had softened, and time had worn it thin. I’d taken it to a seamstress, who warned it needed careful reinforcement. I hadn’t gotten that far since my wedding was still weeks away.

Brooke ran from the aisle, half-covered in tattered silk. Sabrina followed, shouting at the staff to “find a seamstress, fix it now!” But it was too late. There was no backup dress, no fairy-tale wedding.

Just a disaster.

That night, guests picked at their food, whispering behind their hands.

Brooke spent the reception wrapped in a white tablecloth, red-faced and sobbing. Her almost-husband kept shooting her angry looks, embarrassed by her stunt.

She was clearly furious but couldn’t escape the humiliation.

Sabrina looked like she’d aged a decade in an hour.

The wedding, meant to be flawless, was now infamous. It was postponed, but the reception went on since everything was paid for.

Two weeks later, it was my turn.

Jared and I were married in a small garden ceremony, surrounded by people who truly loved us. Of course, Sabrina and Brooke showed up, probably hoping something would go wrong to ease their own embarrassment.

My mom’s dress, now fully restored, was strong, radiant, and fit like it was made for me. The seams were solid, the lace sparkled, the pearls were sewn back perfectly, shining in the sunlight.

As I walked down the aisle, I felt my mom beside me. She wasn’t just a memory; she was there.

Passing the guests, I caught Sabrina sitting stiffly in the back row. Brooke was next to her, arms crossed, still stewing in her own shame. But they couldn’t touch me anymore.

I smiled, because karma had already done its work.

When I reached Jared at the altar, he whispered, “You look just like the woman your dad described.”

My fiancé squeezed my hand.

“I’m so proud of you,” he said.

I smiled and whispered back, “Mom would be too.”