After Spending Six Months Hand-Sewing My Daughter’s Wedding Dress, I Walked Into The Bridal Suite Just In Time To Hear Her Laugh, “If She Asks, Tell Her It Doesn’t Fit. It Looks Like Something From A BARGAIN RACK.”

3 days passed in merciful
silence. No calls from honeymoon. No flowers with apologetic cards.

No visits
from well-meaning neighbors who’d heard whispers about wedding day drama. just me, the dress, and the growing certainty
that something fundamental had shifted in the architecture of my life. I found myself studying the gown with new eyes,
seeing it not as rejected love, but as evidence of skill I’d forgotten I possessed.

The handrolled hem alone
represented 40 hours of work that would cost $800 at any decent bridal boutique. The bodice construction, princess seams with French curves, was cooer level tailoring. My mother’s voice echoed from
memory.

“Bri, you have the hands of an artist. Don’t waste them on other people’s dreams.”

On Thursday morning, I
was photographing the dress from different angles, documenting my work like a crime scene investigator when the
doorbell chimed through the peepphole. I saw a young woman with dark curls escaping from a messy bun, holding what
appeared to be a casserole dish and wearing the kind of determined expression that meant she wouldn’t leave
easily.

“Mrs. Barnes.” Her voice carried a slight accent I couldn’t place. “I’m
Gloria Reed.

I live in the apartment above the bakery on Maple Street. I heard about,” “Well, I heard you might
need some company, Gloria.” The name conjured a vague memory of Hi mentioning her years ago. A girl who’d worked at
the coffee shop where Holly studied for her master’s degree.

They’d been friends, or friendly at least, before
Halie’s social circle narrowed to include only people who could advance her husband’s career. I opened the door
to find a woman of perhaps 28 with paintstained fingers and the kind of authentic smile that had become foreign

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