“Are you going to walk down the aisle alone, or will you drag your mother’s urn along?”
Then came the demands.
She stood in our kitchen one Tuesday morning, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her eyes held that familiar fire.
“You’ll wear my wedding dress,” she announced. No question. No warning. Just an order.
I laughed. “You’re joking, right?”
“Do I look like I’m joking, girl? I’m your father’s wife now. Wearing my dress honors me.”
My stomach dropped. She was four sizes bigger than me. More importantly, I’d rather wear burlap than her dress.
“I already bought my dress, Sandra.”
Her face darkened. “We’ll see about that.”
Two weeks passed in tense silence. Sandra moved through the house like a storm cloud. Dad tried to play peacemaker, but Sandra’s anger filled every room.
I came home that Thursday afternoon with my arms loaded with wedding flowers and table settings. The front door clicked shut behind me. Something felt wrong immediately
The dining room door stood open. Sunlight streamed through the windows. But something glittered on the hardwood floor. My heart stopped when I saw it.
Crystal shards covered the ground like fallen stars. My mother’s precious glass set 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. Just satisfaction.
“Oh Jen!” she gasped in a theatrical performance. “I’m so clumsy. I knocked over the whole cabinet while looking for something.”
I just stood there, numb, trying to process the extent of her cruelty.
