I ran upstairs.
Lily stood frozen in front of her open closet.
Her hands covered her mouth.
“Mommy…”
I saw the dress.
My stomach dropped.
The white crochet had been ripped apart. Threads hung from the hanger like tangled cobwebs, and dark stains marked the fabric.
Lily began crying.
“Someone broke it.”
I pulled her into my arms.
“I know, baby.”
“I wanted to wear it.”
“I know.”
She buried her face against me.
“Why would somebody do that?”
I already knew.
Ida.
I photographed the ruined dress and called her.
She answered calmly.
“Good morning.”
“You destroyed Lily’s dress.”
There was a pause.
Then a cold little laugh.
“Oh, that.”
My hands shook.
“How could you do this to an eight-year-old?”
“She isn’t family,” Ida snapped. “I told Glen this wedding was a mistake.”
“She did nothing to you.”
“She’s the problem.”
I looked at Lily’s tear-streaked face.
“No. You are.”
Ida’s voice turned icy.
“You’ll walk into that church today and find no groom waiting.”
“Glen loves us.”
“Blood always wins in the end.”
She hung up.
For one horrible moment, doubt crept into my heart.
Then I called Glen.
I sent him the photograph.
