My late wife Linda spent nearly five hundred hours creating a wedding dress by hand for our daughter Sammy. She poured twelve thousand dollars into fine silk, French lace, and crystals, making the dress her final act of love while she was battling cancer. Linda completed about eighty percent of the gown before she passed away. Her sister Amy later finished the remaining work, making sure the dress would someday be worn by Sammy. When it was finally completed, Sammy and I both cried. We carefully stored it in a garment bag in the guest room, knowing it represented far more than a wedding dress.
Last week, my sister Diane visited our home with her sixteen-year-old daughter, Molly. The moment Molly noticed the dress, she became fascinated by it and asked if she could try it on. I immediately told her no because the dress was extremely delicate and several sizes too small for her. Sammy tried to soften the refusal by explaining that perhaps the dress could eventually be altered after her own wedding. Molly seemed disappointed, but the matter should have ended there. Unfortunately, the following morning, Diane and I went grocery shopping while Molly remained at home.
When we returned, we discovered the damage. Molly was lying tangled in the dress on the floor, scissors still in her hand. She had apparently tried to force herself into the gown and, when she became stuck, had cut her way out. Seams had been ripped apart, lace had been torn, and crystals and beads were scattered across the carpet. Sammy arrived home early and saw the ruined dress before anyone could prepare her for it. She immediately collapsed beside the torn fabric. Years of grief over losing her mother came rushing back, and Molly’s careless behavior made the situation even more painful.
