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 its lining fell onto the church floor — and when my dad read it aloud, my stepmom realized my mother had defeated her years ago.
My name is Callie. My mom passed away three years ago, and ever since, home has never felt the same.
At 28, I was marrying for love, yet my wedding morning felt more like a test than a celebration.
The house smelled of cinnamon now — Brenda’s scent, not Mom’s. I woke wishing for the lavender and coffee of my childhood, but cinnamon and nerves filled the air instead.
Mom had been gone three years, and Dad remarried after one. Brenda was much younger than him, and though she played sweet for company, I had seen the sharp edge beneath.
Downstairs, I heard Brenda’s voice drift from the kitchen: “Joe, are you sure Callie wants to go through with this? Seems rushed, don’t you think?”
Dad grunted. “It’s her day, Bren. Leave her be.”
Rowan, my fiancé, called as I brushed my hair, his voice a lifeline. “You up and ready, Cal?”
“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.”
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