I gave my daughter-in-law my wedding dress, the only memory of the happiest day of my life. And three years after their divorce, I happened to walk past a second-hand shop and froze… at first, I thought I was seeing things, but then…

I got married thirty-five years ago. My mother made the dress. She worked on it for three months. Every stitch, every detail by hand. It was white, lacy, simple, yet beautiful. I kept it my entire life. In a special cover on the top shelf.

My son got married seven years ago. The daughter-in-law was a sweet girl. I tried to befriend her, helped as much as I could. A month before the wedding, she came to me saying she couldn’t find the right dress. Everything was either too expensive or not to her liking.

I took out my dress and showed it to her. She gasped. Said it was beautiful, that she had dreamed of such a dress. She asked if she could try it on. I agreed.

The dress fit perfectly. She stood in front of the mirror, smiling. I watched and remembered my own wedding. I told her I would give her the dress. She cried with happiness, hugged me, and promised to cherish it and pass it on to her daughter, if she ever had one.

She got married in my dress. She looked beautiful. I sat at the wedding, happy. My dress, my son, a new family. Everything seemed right.

After the wedding, she took the dress with her. She said she would take it to dry cleaning, pack it, and keep it safe. I didn’t worry. I trusted her.

Four years passed. They got divorced. There were various reasons, but mainly — they didn’t get along. The divorce was peaceful, without scandals. They didn’t have children and parted ways amicably.

I called my daughter-in-law a month after the divorce to ask how she was doing. She briefly said that everything was fine. I asked about the dress. I wanted to get it back. She said it was fine, still at her place, and she would return it anytime I wanted.

A year passed. A few times I reminded her about the dress. Each time she promised to bring it, but never did. She said she forgot, was busy, or would bring it next time for sure.

Another two years went by. I stopped reminding her. I thought the dress no longer mattered. The daughter-in-law and my son didn’t communicate. She lived her life, we lived ours. The dress remained with her, and I let it be.

Yesterday, I was walking through the city center. I needed to go to the pharmacy. I passed by a second-hand shop with a large display window, full of clothes. I stopped instinctively.

And there I saw the dress. My dress. I recognized it immediately. The lace, the unique pattern on the bodice, the specific length of the hem. My mother had sewn it, and I remembered every detail.

I moved closer to the window. It was definitely it. The price tag was laughable — less than what a regular café meal costs.

I went into the shop and asked about the dress. The salesperson said it had been brought in two weeks ago by a young woman who left it on consignment. She set the price herself, a minimal one. She said she didn’t need it and wanted it sold even for pennies.

I bought the dress back, paid that laughable amount, took the package, and left the shop.

I sat on a nearby bench. I took the dress out of the bag. I looked at it. The same dress my mother spent three months making. The one I wore to my wedding. The one I gave to my daughter-in-law with love. Which she promised to cherish.

And she gave it to a second-hand shop. For pennies. Didn’t even call me, didn’t offer to let me have it back. She just disposed of it as if it were some unnecessary item.

I called her and asked about the dress. She hesitated and then said she gave it to a friend for a wedding. She lied to my face. I told her I had just bought the dress from the second-hand shop an hour ago. She went silent. Then she said she had the right, that the dress was hers, that I had given it to her.

I hung up the phone. Sat on the bench with the bag. People walked by. And I held my dress, unable to understand how such a thing happened.

The dress now hangs in my closet. In the same cover. I look at it every day. I remember how my mother sewed it. How I wore it to my wedding. How I gave it to my daughter-in-law hoping she would preserve this memory. And she sold it for less than the price of a movie ticket. Didn’t even bother to return it to me. Just got rid of it.

Tell me, am I giving too much importance to objects? Or did my daughter-in-law act cynically? And can someone be forgiven for such a disregard for memories, for feelings, for something that is dear to you?

***

I gave my daughter-in-law my wedding dress – the only memory of the happiest day of my life.
She was marrying my son and swore she would cherish it like a relic.
I believed her and even after their divorce, I never once asked where my dress was.
And three years later, I happened to walk past a second-hand shop and froze… at first, I thought I was imagining things.
But when I stepped closer, I saw something I was completely unprepared for…
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