my shredded gown, scissors shaking in her hand. My scream brought Mother running. “You’re the problem! Stop bullying your poor sister!” she yelled, unaware that my future mother-in-law was watching from the doorway.
I’m Emily Parker, twenty-nine, and that Saturday should have been the happiest day of my life.
I’d spent eighteen months organizing my wedding to James Whitmore, the kindest man I’d ever met.
My dream gown featured ivory silk, intricate lace, and hundreds of pearls sewn by hand.
I’d saved $7,800 for it.
But now its lace
