I was only thirteen when my mom died—gone in an instant, leaving behind a world that suddenly felt cold and empty. One moment she was there, laughing and humming as she baked her famous blueberry pie, the next, she was gone.

The days that followed were a blur. I wandered through the house, searching for pieces of her. “Her scarf still smelled like lavender,” I remembered, holding it close. But nothing filled the space she left behind.

Then I found the wedding dress. It was sealed in a box, labeled in her handwriting: “For her special day.” She had kept it for me, imagining a time she’d help me into it. “Even in her absence,” I realized, “my mom left me with something priceless.”

Years passed. I grew up, carrying her memory with me. When I met someone who made me laugh the way she did, I knew it was time. On my wedding day, slipping into that dress felt like her arms wrapping around me.

That dress became more than fabric. It was her love, stitched into every seam—a promise that even loss couldn’t take away.