A year after Mom died, my daughter suddenly said, “Grandma says just throw her wedding dress away.” I was puzzled, brushing it off as childish imagination. Five minutes later, my sister called, sobbing with excitement. “Is Mom’s wedding dress still with you? I want to wear it for my wedding to honor her!”
My stomach churned. Mom had despised my sister’s fiancé, heartbroken when he proposed. My daughter’s words felt like Mom’s spirit screaming disapproval. I couldn’t ignore the eerie timing.
I searched the attic, fingers trembling as I opened the box. The dress lay there, pristine, its lace whispering memories of Mom’s joy. But her disapproval echoed louder. I pictured my sister walking down the aisle, wearing it with a man Mom loathed. It felt wrong, like betraying her memory.
“I couldn’t find it,” I lied to my sister, voice steady despite my racing heart. She cried harder, disappointed, but I couldn’t confess. That night, I buried the dress in the backyard under moonlight, whispering, “I’m sorry, Mom.”
My daughter never mentioned Grandma again, but I felt Mom’s presence linger, satisfied. My sister’s wedding went on, beautiful but without the dress. I never told her the truth—some signs are meant to stay secret.
