“At the rehearsal,” she said. “Because it was obviously going to happen.”
“You warned her?”
One of my bridesmaids was already beside me.
“Come on. We have an emergency kit upstairs.”
Another gathered the train carefully.
“We have an emergency kit upstairs.”
I let them lead me away because crying in front of wedding guests while my mother-in-law explained how she’d predicted the destruction of my dress wasn’t how I’d planned to spend dinner.
***
Mom met us in the bridal suite.
I let them lead me away.
Three bridesmaids turned the train over, discussing pins, thread, and whether the bustle could hide the worst section.
I stood in front of the mirror.
“She ruined it, Mom.”
Mom was sitting behind me.
“She tore it. That’s not the same thing.”
“She ruined it, Mom.”
I turned.
“Mom, look at it.”
“I am.”
The lace we’d chosen together hung unevenly from the back.
One bridesmaid carefully pinned a torn section underneath.
Mom watched her.
The lace we’d chosen together hung unevenly from the back.
Then she looked at me.
Before she could say anything else, someone knocked.
Our photographer stepped inside with her camera.
“Nathan needs to see something,” she said.
Nathan had followed her upstairs.
