I wanted to wear our first date dress to our anniversary dinner with my hubby. Really important to me. However, it vanished days earlier.
My MIL shrugged when I asked. However, seeing her sister wearing it in a Facebook post at a backyard party with a wine glass made my blood boil. I blinked at the screen, hoping my eyes were deceiving me.
Nope. My dress was burgundy silk with small gold buttons on the sleeves. The one I carefully put in the garment bag in our closet’s back.
Felt nauseous. I saw more than fabric in that garment. It was my dress when Thomas, my husband, hesitantly asked if I would be happy with hearing his horrible jokes forever.
I laughed so hard I almost spilled wine. Our beginning was sewn onto that outfit. I stormed into my mother-in-law’s guest room and calmly inquired, “Did you lend my burgundy dress to Aunt Connie?”
Her disdainful shrug appeared as she looked up from knitting.
“She wore nothing nice to her cousin’s retirement. Just a dress.”
One dress. Swallowed the lump in my throat.
„That garment is important to me.”
She waved her hand like a flytetter. “You have better ones. Let go.”
No argument.
I left, heart beating, palms sweating. I was afraid to say anything else without erupting. Instead, I called Thomas from the car.
He sighed after listening quietly. “I’ll talk to her, baby.”
One thing about Thomas. He’s calm.
Thoughtful. Stable for my storm. Deep down, I knew it would fail.
His mother dismissed everything. He avoided battle to maintain peace. After bedtime, I went to the guest room.
Was curious if she had brought it back. Maybe she kept it in her bag to return after the party. I regretted peeking but unzipped her luggage side.
Inside were hair curlers, a leopard-print nightgown, and the burgundy dress in a corner. Crumpled. Wrinkled.
Stained. The sleeve with barbecue sauce. I gently removed it like an injured bird.
My chest hurt. The next morning, I placed it on the kitchen table. When she entered, her eyebrows raised.
“You searched my stuff?”
“I was looking for my dress,” I shakily responded. She was unfazed. “You have it now.
Happy?”
I answered, “No,” crying. I’m heartbroken.”
She left, ending it. No apology.
No explanation. For two days, I felt like a balloon losing air. Not simply the dress.
It was disrespect. An absence of care. Her not caring about anything I cared about.
Thomas tried to fix it. He offered to clean the dress professionally. He stated we could get another like it.
It wasn’t about the outfit anymore. I browsed our first date images in bed two nights before our anniversary. We were on the patio of that tiny Greek place with fairy lights.
Laughing. Leaning together. I focused on the dress.
An thought struck me. The next morning, I went to a boutique owned by Lila, who restored vintage clothes. She looked at the outfit and replied, “It’s not hopeless.
But it needs love.”
Fingers crossed, I gave it to her. Lila called me on our anniversary. “Come pick it up,” she said happily.
“I did some magic.”
The garment appeared nearly new. Removed sauce stain. The cloth shined again.
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