On Thursday afternoon, I left work early to go home and pack up my things.When I pushed open the apartment door, I saw someone standing in front of the full-length mirror in the living room.It was Stacy, and she was wearing a wedding dress, but it wasn't hers. It was mine.I had carefully kept that wedding dress folded at the bottom of my suitcase, wrapped in silk.Mom loved to sew, and this was something she'd made for me on her sickbed, embroidering the fabric with my favorite cherry blossoms, stitch by stitch.A week before she passed away, she held my hand and said, "Even if I'm not around when you get married, I'll still be there to witness it as long as you wear this."It had been eight years since she passed, and I had never been able to wear it ever since.But now, Stacy was wearing it, twirling in front of the mirror as the hem trailed on the floor, picking up a layer of dust."Your wedding dress is so beautiful, Joyce! You won't get angry at me for trying it on just
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