I sat in front of the mirror, my fingers brushing against the lace of my bridal gown, tracing the exquisite floral designs sewn into the fabric.
Today was the day.
I was marrying Sam.
The love of my life.
A tear tickled the corner of my eye, and I chuckled at myself, wiping it away before it fell.
“Careful,” my maid of honor, Lauren, teased from the doorway, holding out a flute of champagne. “We spent way too long on your makeup for you to ruin it now.”
“I just…” My voice wavered. “I can’t believe this is real.”
And in just thirty minutes, I’d be heading down the aisle toward the man I’d loved for what seemed like an eternity.
I stood at the altar, my pulse hammering, my fingers curled around my bouquet, and locked eyes with Sam, my five-year fiancé.
Then the door creaked open.
A woman walked in.
She looked amazing. She had long, dark hair cascading over one shoulder and lips painted a vivid, vibrant red.
But it wasn’t her attractiveness that gave me a cold.
It was how she looked at Sam.
“Aren’t you going to tell them?” she asked, her voice smooth and confident.
“Tell us what?” I swallowed.
“That you’re already married, Sam,” she said.
I glanced at Sam, expecting him to chuckle, shake his head, or just do anything… anything!
But he did not.
Instead, he moved forward.
And then, right in the middle of our wedding, he walked to her.
God help me, he wrapped his arms around her.
Sam moved his lips, whispering something into her ear. Something only she could hear.
She gave a gentle laugh.
“I…” He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “Hazel, I need to explain this.”
I turned to her, my voice trembling.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Anna,” she said simply.
She was his childhood best buddy. Someone he had been close to for many years. But he never discussed marriage.
“Sam,” I said, forcing the words to come out. “Tell me the truth. Right now. In front of all our family and friends.”
“When we were kids, we had a pretend wedding,” he admitted. “Candy ring pops, a few scribbled vows, and Anna trying to play a song on her ukulele. We thought it was the real deal at the time. We were twelve.”
“But Anna is my best friend, that’s all.”
“Then why did you hold her like that? Why did she just walk in here and say that?”
“A few years ago,” he said, “Anna was in a terrible car accident.”
“The doctors said that she might never walk again.”
“Anna spent years in rehab, fighting to get her life back,” Sam continued. “I invited her to the wedding because how could I not have her here? But she told me that she wouldn’t be able to come.”
“I wanted to walk through those doors by myself,” Anna said just as softly.
“I’ve been practicing with heels for a long time now. I’ve literally been teaching myself how to walk in them for your day.”
“I’m so sorry for the drama, Hazel,” she said, her voice laced with something between guilt and amusement. “Sam and I have always pranked each other, and I thought… why not one last time?”
Tears flowed from the back of my eyes. I couldn’t believe it. This woman clawed her way back up, determined to regain her foothold.
I smiled at Sam.
“And I am so happy for you both. Truly,” Anna said.
The room was still. Then there was laughter.
The tension in the room subsided, and the vibe shifted as the visitors murmured and chuckled gently.
My wedding had been a dream.
The love. The joy. The warmth of it all.
My Stepmom Gifted Me a Funerary Urn for My 17th Birthday
I always knew my stepmom, Monica, wasn’t exactly the nicest person—annoying, yes, but not evil. She was the type who would talk over me, forget my birthday, and call me “kiddo” even though I was practically an adult.
But what she did on my 17th birthday? It was the final straw.
It all started after my mom, Sarah, passed away when I was ten. After that, it was just me and Dad. We were a team—movie nights, pizza dinners, and a mutual understanding that we had each other’s backs, always.
Then Monica came along about three years ago. She wasn’t the worst, just kind of… there. She moved in, slowly took over the bathroom with her endless beauty products, and managed to inch her way into Dad’s life, whether I liked it or not.
Monica had dreams—big dreams—of opening a hair salon. I didn’t have a problem with people having dreams, but I had my own, too, and she treated me like I was an inconvenience that came with the house.
But I had a plan. College was my way out, and Dad had promised me from the time I was little that there was a college fund waiting for me. “Your mom and I set it up when you were five, Lila,” he’d say. “It’s all there, and I add to it every year.”
So, I worked hard in school, counting down the days until I could leave for college and start a life of my own.
On the morning of my 17th birthday, I wasn’t expecting much. Maybe some pancakes, a card—Dad was at work, so it was just Monica and me. But when Monica handed me a gift bag, things took a weird turn.
Inside the bag was a pink funerary urn. Yes, you read that right. An urn.
I stared at it, completely confused. “What the hell is this?” I asked.
Monica leaned against the kitchen counter, a smug look on her face. “It’s symbolic,” she said as if that explained anything.
“Symbolic of what?” I asked, already feeling a sinking feeling in my stomach.
Monica smiled wider. “It’s time to bury your college dreams, kiddo. Your dad and I decided to put that fund to better use.”
“Better use?” I repeated, my heart racing.
“Yep. We used it to help me open my salon. College is a gamble, Lila. But a business? That’s a real investment.”
I was frozen. Had they really taken my future, my college fund, and sunk it into Monica’s dream? How could my dad have let this happen?
“Life’s full of disappointments,” she added, as if that was supposed to be comforting.
I ran upstairs and slammed my door, sobbing harder than I ever had. Everything I’d worked for, everything my mom had wanted for me, was gone.
For the next few days, I barely spoke to either of them. Monica pranced around like she owned the house while I sat with the urn on my desk, a twisted reminder of what I had lost.
Then, a few days later, something strange happened.
When I got home from school, there was a note on my desk in Monica’s messy handwriting: Meet me at the salon at 6 P.M. tonight. No questions. Just trust me.
I almost laughed. Trust her? After what she did?
But my curiosity got the better of me, and against my better judgment, I went.
When I arrived at the salon, the lights were off, but the door was unlocked. Hesitant, I stepped inside. There, in the middle of the room, were Monica and my dad, both grinning.
“Surprise!” Monica shouted.
I was speechless.
“Look,” Monica said, stepping aside to reveal a shiny new sign on the wall: Dream Cuts: A Scholarship Fund in Honor of Sarah.
“What is this?” I asked, completely lost.
Monica’s smile softened. “We didn’t use your college fund, Lila. It’s all still there. The salon isn’t just for me—it’s for you, too. And for others like you. A portion of the profits will go toward funding scholarships in your mom’s name.”
I blinked, feeling like the ground was shifting beneath my feet.
“But… why make me think otherwise?” I asked, still trying to wrap my head around it.
Monica winced. “Yeah, the urn thing… That was not my best idea. I thought it would be motivational, like burying the past and embracing the future. Turns out, it was just creepy.”
Dad stepped forward, placing a hand on my shoulder. “We’ve been planning this for months. Your mom always wanted to help kids get to college. This way, her dream lives on.”
I stood there, stunned, my anger melting into something softer.
Monica looked at me earnestly. “I’m not trying to replace your mom, Lila. I just want to build something meaningful, something that helps you and others. I know I haven’t been the best stepmom, but I hope this can be a fresh start.”
For the first time in a long time, I smiled.
It wasn’t perfect, and maybe things with Monica never would be. But in that moment, standing in a salon named for my mom, I realized she wasn’t trying to destroy my future—she was trying to honor it in a way I hadn’t expected.
And yeah, I kept the urn. I planted peace lilies in it. Maybe it wasn’t the symbol Monica had intended, but it had become something new. A symbol of hope.
What would you have done in my shoes?
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