When I think of my wedding day, the moment that stays with me is seeing my mother in a thrift-store dress—and feeling a flash of shame I took out on her. She didn’t argue, just gave a small, resigned smile I only later understood.
She died while I was on my honeymoon. Sorting through her things, I found that dress carefully folded, with a velvet pouch in the pocket. Inside was a locket with our initials and a note: “For when you’re ready to understand.”
She wrote about raising me alone, saving every dollar so I’d have a better life. She had planned to buy a new dress for my wedding, but when her car broke down, she used the money for repairs so I wouldn’t worry.
Holding the dress, I realized what I’d missed: her love lived in quiet sacrifices—mended seams, careful folds, choices she never mentioned. I wore the locket and whispered an apology.
That dress, once a source of embarrassment, is now one of my most precious reminders of her.
