When my cousin Lily offered to help with the wedding, I thought it was generous. She tagged along for cake tastings, helped address invitations, even offered to drive me to fittings. She smiled sweetly, her voice always dripping with support: “Anything you need, I’m here.” I trusted her. She was family.
On the morning of my wedding, the house buzzed with nerves and perfume. My bridesmaids flitted about in their pastel gowns, curling hair and fastening jewelry. I slipped into my dress—the one I’d dreamed about since I was a little girl. Lace bodice, sweetheart neckline, a train that made me feel like royalty. My mother wept when she saw me. My heart nearly burst with joy.
But when I walked down the aisle, that joy turned to ice.
There, standing among the guests, was Lily. In a wedding dress.
Not just any dress. My dress. The same lace, the same neckline, the same silhouette. If not for the lack of a veil, she could have been mistaken for the bride.
Gasps rippled through the pews. My steps faltered. My groom’s eyes widened, flicking between me and her. The photographer froze, unsure where to point the camera.
I forced myself forward, each step heavier than the last, rage simmering beneath my skin. When the ceremony ended, before the reception began, I cornered her near the restrooms.
“What the hell are you doing?” I hissed.
She tilted her head, feigning innocence. “What? It’s just a dress. I didn’t know it would bother you so much.”
“You didn’t know?” My voice cracked. “You came to every fitting. You saw me try this on. You knew it was mine.”
She shrugged, a small, smug smile tugging at her lips. “I guess we just have the same taste.”
My hands shook so violently I had to grip my bouquet to steady myself. “You wanted to ruin this for me,” I whispered.
Her eyes glittered with something cold. “Maybe I wanted to remind everyone that you’re not the only one who can look like a bride.”
For the rest of the night, every glance, every photo, every cheer was tainted. Guests whispered, unsure where to look. Some congratulated her by mistake. Others asked me if we had planned it as some strange “twin bride” theme. My anger festered, but I forced smiles, refusing to let her steal more than she already had.
At the end of the night, when my groom and I finally slipped away, he pulled me close and whispered, “No one could mistake you for anyone but the bride. Not tonight. Not ever.”
And though his words steadied me, I knew the memory of Lily’s smug grin in my dress would haunt me forever.
Final Thought
Weddings are supposed to be about unity, but jealousy has a way of crashing the party dressed in white. Lily thought she could steal the spotlight by copying my dress, but all she revealed was her envy. A wedding gown doesn’t make a bride—the love, the vows, the forever do. And she’ll never have what I had that day, no matter how much lace she wears.
