On the morning of my wedding, my stepmom shredded my dress. I thought wearing my late mother’s gown would save the day. But during the ceremony, something hidden in the lining fell onto the church floor — and the moment my dad read it out loud, my stepmom realized my mother had beaten her years ago.
I’m Callie. My mom died three years ago, and ever since, home has never felt quite right.
I was 28, marrying for love, and yet my wedding morning felt more like a test than a celebration.
The house smelled like cinnamon now, Brenda’s scent, not Mom’s. That morning, I woke up wishing for the lavender and coffee of my childhood, but cinnamon and nerves filled the air instead.
My wedding morning felt more like a test than a celebration.
Mom had been gone three years, and Dad remarried after one. Brenda was younger than him by a lot, and though she played sweet for company, I’d seen the sharp edge beneath.
Downstairs, I heard Brenda’s voice float from the kitchen. “Joe, are you sure Callie wants to go through with this? Seems rushed, don’t you think?”
My dad grunted. “It’s her day, Bren. Leave her be.”
Rowan, my fiancé, called as I brushed my hair, his voice a life raft. “You up and ready, Cal?”
“It’s her day, Bren. Leave her be.”
“Trying to be,” I said, faking calm.
“Don’t let Brenda get in your head, honey. She’s going to try. Ignore her.”
“She’s not in my head,” I lied, peeking down the hall as Brenda laughed too loudly at something Dad said.
He chuckled. “You sure? Every family dinner, she’s talking about the house or the business. Last week she asked me what would happen to the bakery one day — who it would belong to.”
I groaned. “If I hear her mention Mom’s bakery again, I’m moving.”
“Don’t let Brenda get in your head, honey.”
Minutes later, I slipped downstairs, my dress bag in hand.
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