She married my dad five years after Mom passed, and from day one, she bristled at any mention of Alice. After my engagement, her bitterness sharpened. First came the cruel jabs:
“Will you walk down the aisle alone, or drag your mother’s urn with you?”
Then the demands:
“You’ll wear my wedding dress. It’s tradition.”
I refused. She didn’t take it well.
Two weeks later, I came home to a nightmare—Mom’s crystal set smashed across the dining room floor. Sandra stood there, feigning surprise.
“Oh, Jen! The cabinet just tipped over. Such a shame.”
I couldn’t breathe. I fled upstairs, refusing to let her see me cry. That night, I called Aunt Marlene, sobbing.
“She destroyed Mom’s crystals.”
After a pause, Marlene spoke gently.
“She told her friend she was going to do it. I overheard her. So I switched the sets. What she broke was a thrift store replica. The originals are safe in my attic. And I installed a camera. We caught everything.”
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