He already knew which dress I’d chosen—we had talked about it many times.
“You’ll be proud,” I said, hugging him tightly.
“I already am,” he whispered.
The next morning, I woke up full of butterflies.
I did my makeup the way my mom used to—soft blush, natural lips. I curled my hair and even found the lavender clip she once wore. By early afternoon, everything was ready.
I went upstairs to put on the dress, my heart racing so fast I could barely breathe.
But when I unzipped the garment bag, I froze.
The satin was torn straight down the seam. The bodice was stained with something dark and sticky—like coffee. The embroidered flowers were smeared with what looked like black ink.
I dropped to my knees, clutching the ruined fabric.
