“Will you walk down the aisle alone, or will you drag your mother’s urn with you?”
Then came the requests.
One Tuesday morning, she was in the kitchen, arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes held that familiar fire.
“You will wear my wedding dress,” she announced. No doubt. No warning. Just an order.
I laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”
“It sounds like I’m kidding, girl? I’m your father’s wife now. Wearing my dress honors me.”
My stomach dropped. She was four sizes too big for me. More importantly, I’d rather wear canvas than her dress.
“I already bought my dress, Sandra.”
Her face darkened. “We’ll see.”
Two weeks passed in tense silence. Sandra moved through the house like a thundercloud. Dad tried to play peacemaker, but Sandra’s anger filled every room.
That Thursday afternoon, I returned home with my arms laden with wedding flowers and tableware. The front door closed behind me. Something went wrong immediately.
The dining room door was open. Sunlight filtered through the windows. But something glinted on the wooden floor. My heart stopped when I saw it.
Shards of crystal littered the floor like fallen stars. My mother’s precious glassware lay in ruins. Each piece told a story of violence, hatred, and deliberate destruction.
Sandra stood there holding a broom. Her face showed no shame or regret. Only satisfaction.
“Oh Jen!” she gasped in theatrical fashion. “I’m so clumsy. I knocked over the entire cabinet while looking for something.”
I stood there, numb, trying to process the extent of her cruelty.
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