He walked up behind me while I was seated at my vanity, gently wrapping his arms around me. “Technically, I shouldn’t be with you the night before the wedding,” he murmured. “So I’ll come pick you up tomorrow morning. The makeup artist will be here early. Sorry, you’ll have to wake up a bit earlier.”
Moments later, I heard the sound of an engine starting as he drove away.
As soon as I was sure he had gone, I made my move. I stood up, grabbed a pair of scissors and without hesitation, began shredding the wedding dress to pieces. Delicate fabric that once symbolized dreams and promises now fell in limp, crumpled piles at my feet.
Next, I yanked the framed photo off the wall and hurled it to the ground. The glass shattered with a loud crack and sprayed its shards across the floor.
I reached down, tore the photo out of the broken frame and ripped it apart with trembling but determined hands. Piece by piece, I let it fall. With each tear, I felt the weight on my chest grow lighter, the knot inside my heart slowly coming undone.
By the time I finished, there was less than an hour before the wedding entourage would arrive to “pick up the bride.”