From the closet, I remove the wedding dress my mother made for me thirty years ago. I wanted a form-fitting bodice flaring into a three-tiered ruffled skirt. She sewed a basic bell-shaped gown.

You slip into the dress.

I zip the back and gasp. The dress fits you better than it once fit me.

Smiling, you twirl before the mirror. “May I wear it?”

I nod. Tears sting my eyes.

I wish my mother could see you, how beautiful you look in the gown she made me, a dress I wore out of obligation, but you’ll wear out of love.

Angela Lam is the author of several contemporary romances, two memoirs, a short story collection, and a suspense novella. She currently teaches fiction writing at Gotham Writers’ Workshop.

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Every Day Fiction