A year after mom died, my daughter suddenly said, “Grandma says just throw her wedding dress away.” I didn’t get what she meant. But 5 mins later, my sister—who’s getting married—called crying. Her voice shaking with excitement and tears, she asked, “Is our mom’s wedding dress still with you? For my wedding, I want to wear it as a tribute to her!”
I felt sick to my stomach, as if what my daughter had said just before my sister’s call was a sign from my mom. Mom never liked my sister’s boyfriend and felt devastated when he proposed, and she accepted. This was definitely her final sign of disapproval.
I ended up telling my sister I couldn’t find the dress. The lie slipped out easily, but it’s haunted me since. That gown, preserved in tissue and lavender, symbolized Mom’s dreams for us—elegant, timeless, full of love she approved. She’d whispered doubts about the fiancé from the start: his temper, his wandering eye, the way he dismissed her concerns. “He’ll break her heart,” she’d said, tears in her eyes.
My daughter, only six, had never heard those words. Yet there she was, channeling Grandma with eerie precision. Was it coincidence? Or Mom reaching across the veil to protect her youngest one last time?
I hid the dress in the attic, heart pounding. Some signs demand obedience. Mom’s love was fierce even in death. My sister deserved better than a union built on cracks. If heaven intervenes, who am I to ignore it? The wedding marches on, but Grandma’s veto echoes eternally.
