A simple compliment started it.
“You’re lucky to have that dress,” Kayla said casually, sunglasses perched on her nose.
I smiled, brushing it off, until the next morning when I opened my closet.
The garment bag was gone.
My heart plummeted.
I still see my mom, laughing in the rain like the storm was her dance partner.
She stood in her wedding dress—lace sleeves clinging, veil coiled like seaweed, droplets sparkling on her curls. That photo hung in our hallway when I was little. I was five the first time I stared at it in awe.
“Mom! How did you survive getting soaked like that?” I asked in horror.
She only giggled, shaking her curls like a wet dog. “It was just a summer shower, sweetheart. Then the rainbow came.”
Her dress wasn’t just fabric. It was her. Woven with every ounce of her joy, stitched with her strength, carrying the warmth of the home she built, and the love she poured into us before she died.
When I turned eighteen, the year cancer finally took her, she made sure I had it. But she’d already altered it—through a seamstress she trusted. Sleeves modernized, silhouette softened, but the soul was untouched. The ivory lace she adored, the scalloped trim, the row of delicate buttons she’d fastened on her own wedding day—they all remained.
She left it waiting for me.
And I did wait. Six years. Untouched in its bag, hidden in the back of my wardrobe. Until her.
Kayla stormed into my apartment two months before my wedding like she owned the air itself. Logan’s sister always did.
“Oh my god, you have to see this dress I’m wearing to the Goldsmith Gala,” she twirled, heels clicking, phone flashing photos. “Black velvet, plunging neckline, totally sexy. My boyfriend nearly fainted when I showed him.”
She dropped onto my couch, scrolled, talked over me, and flipped her platinum hair. Then, suddenly, she froze—her gaze locked on the corner of my room.
The garment bag.
Her voice shifted. “Is that the dress?”
I hesitated. “Yeah. My mom’s.”
She stood slowly, fingers hovering like she was approaching a priceless relic in a museum. “Wow…”
“It’s not just a dress,” I said softly, stepping beside her. “She had it altered for me before she died. I’m saving it for my wedding.”
Kayla’s eyes flickered with something sharp. “You’re so lucky. I’d kill to wear that once.”
I forced a smile and zipped the bag shut. “It’s not for wearing. Not until my wedding.”
She didn’t answer.
The next morning, it was gone.
At first, I thought I was dreaming. I tore my room apart. Called Logan. Called Kayla. Text after text—nothing.
At 3:12 p.m., my phone buzzed:
Don’t worry! I borrowed it for the gala. You’ll barely notice 😊
The floor tilted beneath me.
I called—no answer. Texted: Kayla, you took my mom’s dress without asking. That’s stealing.
Her reply came like a slap: Relax. It’s just fabric. You’re being weirdly dramatic.
Logan walked in just as I hurled my phone across the couch.
“She stole my mom’s dress,” I said, trembling.
His face drained of color. “She what?”
That night, I turned on Instagram.
There she was.
Kayla. In my wedding dress.
Standing beneath a marble arch, hand on hip like she was on the red carpet. Flashbulbs bursting, champagne glasses raised. One strap dangled loose from her shoulder. Near the hem?
A massive red wine stain.
Soaking into ivory lace.
My mother’s lace.
The caption read: Vintage with a twist 😉 Who says you can’t make something old unforgettable?
I called her, voice breaking. “You destroyed it.”
She laughed. “Oh my god, chill. I made it famous! That dress is trending.”
“I hate you.”
“Wow. Someone’s hormonal.”
I hung up.
At midnight, I knocked on the seamstress’s door with the dress in my arms, sobbing. She opened the bag, touched the shredded lace, and whispered, “Honey… I’m so sorry. This isn’t repairable.”
Before I could collapse, I heard the door behind me slam. Logan. His face was thunder.
“Where is she?” he demanded.
Later, I learned he cornered Kayla that night. Their screaming match split the walls.
“You always loved me more, Logan!” she shrieked. “You’re marrying the wrong girl. Admit it!”
But that was the breaking point.
Logan came home, pulled me into his arms, and said fiercely, “I’ll fix this. Whatever it takes.”
For four days he scoured fabric markets, begged antique sellers, and hired artisans who specialized in restoring lace. Piece by piece, stitch by stitch, my mother’s dress came back to life.
The seamstress, hands trembling, showed me the neckline. “We rebuilt it from her photos. She’s in here,” she whispered. “Every stitch. We brought her back.”
When I touched the lace, my fingertips tingled. Not just fabric. Her.
On our wedding morning, the sky was flawless—until it wasn’t.
Clouds rolled in. Guests opened umbrellas. My chest squeezed tight.
“She loved the rain,” I whispered to Logan.
He checked his phone, grinning crookedly. “Forecast says we’re in for one hell of a rainbow.”
And then—just as I reached the aisle—it happened.
The drizzle stopped. The clouds broke. Behind him, a rainbow arched across the sky.
“She’s here,” Logan whispered, tears in his eyes.
“I know,” I choked. “She sent the rainbow.”
The ceremony began. But then, chaos.
Kayla.
Disheveled, frantic, makeup smeared, shoved against security. “Logan, please! Let me in! You know I belong here!”
He didn’t even glance at her.
“She’s not getting in,” he said firmly. “This is your day. No one ruins it.”
And she didn’t. She was left outside, screaming.
While I walked down the aisle in my mother’s dress. Reborn.
At the reception, people marveled at the gown.
“Where did you find it? It looks like it came from a dream.”
“It did,” I smiled. “A long time ago.”
Kayla thought she destroyed my connection to my mother. That she’d ruin my wedding, keep Logan bound to her jealousy forever.
But she didn’t understand love.
Logan chose us. Chose me. He told me the night before the wedding, “Family doesn’t destroy what you love. She isn’t family anymore.”
He was right.
Kayla lost her place. But I gained everything.
I danced under the lights in my mother’s lace, alive with her spirit. Each stitch was survival, not ruin.
As Logan twirled me across the floor, he whispered in my ear, “She would’ve loved today.”
I nodded through tears.
“She sent the rain,” he said softly. “But you—” his lips brushed my temple—“you were always the rainbow.”