Chapter 3: The Sound of Scissors
I should have known something was wrong when I heard Samantha laughing downstairs.
It wasn't her usual laugh.
It was louder, sharper, and strangely deliberate, as though she wanted someone to hear her.
I stood in my bedroom doorway, listening.
For a few seconds, I considered going downstairs to check on her.
Then I looked at the dress.
The ivory satin shimmered beneath the bedroom light.
The pearls were still arranged perfectly along the neckline.
Everything looked exactly as it should.
I told myself I was being paranoid.
Samantha had threatened me before.
She had hidden my textbooks, borrowed my clothes without permission, and once told a group of family friends that I only earned good grades because professors felt sorry for me.
But she had never destroyed anything that couldn't be replaced.
The dress was different.
It was the one thing in my life that connected me to my mother in a way I could touch.
I crossed the room and checked the zipper on the garment bag.
Then I ran my fingers over the satin.
Nothing seemed damaged.
I exhaled slowly.
Maybe Samantha had finally understood that this was a line she shouldn't cross.
I almost laughed at myself for believing it.
A few minutes later, my phone buzzed.
It was a message from my classmate asking whether I was ready for graduation.
I replied that I was, then sat at my desk and tried to review the notes for a final presentation scheduled for the following week.
I read the same paragraph four times.
None of it stayed in my mind.
My thoughts kept returning to Samantha's expression when she had looked at the dress.
That cold little smile.
The way she had told me I would regret treating her badly.
I was still thinking about it when I heard footsteps on the stairs.
Then came my father's voice.
“Emily? Are you upstairs?””
I stood.
“I'm here, Dad.””
“Come down for a minute, sweetheart.””
I glanced at the dress.
“I'll be right there.””
I stepped into the hallway.
The smell of dinner drifted up from the kitchen, but the house felt unusually tense.
Victoria stood near the living room entrance, holding a glass of water.
Samantha was beside the sofa, examining her nails.
Her three-thousand-dollar handbag sat on the coffee table.
Dad stood near the kitchen doorway, looking between them.
“What happened?”” I asked.
Samantha lifted her head.
“Nothing. Why would anything happen?””
I looked at Dad.
He rubbed a hand over his forehead.
“Your stepsister says you two had another disagreement.””
“Because she came into my room and insulted Mom.””
Victoria sighed.
“Emily, must we bring your mother into every disagreement?””
I stared at her.
“She brought her up first.””
“I'm sure you both said things you didn't mean,” Victoria replied.
That was how it always happened.
Samantha would start an argument.
I would defend myself.
Then Victoria would step in and insist we were equally responsible, regardless of who had started it.
Dad, caught between his wife and his daughter, would try to find a compromise.
Usually, I accepted it.
Not because I believed it was fair, but because I didn't want him to feel forced to choose between the family he had lost and the family he was trying to build.
Tonight, though, I was tired.
“I don't want to argue,” I said.
“I just want Samantha to leave my things alone.””
Samantha rolled her eyes.
“Your things. Your room. Your mother. Your graduation.””
She gave a dramatic sigh.
“Everything is yours, isn't it?””
“Enough,” Dad said.
His voice was firm.
Samantha went quiet.
He turned toward me.
“Emily, I want tomorrow to be a happy day for you. Your mother would have been proud.””
My throat tightened.
“Thank you, Dad.””
He smiled gently.
“Now go upstairs and get some rest. You've worked hard for this.””
I nodded.
For a moment, I felt better.
Then Samantha spoke.
“Of course she has. We wouldn't want anything to distract from the big Emily Carter show.””
Dad turned toward her.
“Samantha.””
“What? I'm just saying.””
“Then stop saying it.””
She looked genuinely offended.
Victoria set her glass down.
“Daniel, she's upset too.””
“Upset about what?”” he asked.
Nobody answered.
I decided to leave before the argument grew worse.
I returned upstairs and closed my bedroom door.
This time, I locked it.
I wasn't sure whether Samantha would try to enter again, but I didn't want to take any chances.
I checked the dress one more time.
Then I sat on the edge of my bed and looked at the framed photograph of Mom.
She was smiling into the sunlight, one hand resting on my shoulder.
I traced the edge of the frame.
“I wish you were here,” I whispered.
The words came out smaller than I expected.
I had spent years convincing myself that I had learned to live with her absence.
But certain moments made the grief rise so suddenly that it felt like losing her all over again.
Graduation was supposed to be one of the happiest days of my life.
I wanted to tell her about my professors, my friends, and the classes I had struggled through.
I wanted to show her the degree I had worked so hard to earn.
Most of all, I wanted to stand in front of her wearing the dress she had designed and hear her say that she was proud of me.
I wiped my eyes.
Then I heard a sound from the hallway.
A soft click.
I turned toward the door.
Someone was trying the handle.
“Who's there?””
No answer.
I stood and crossed the room.
The handle moved again.
“I'm serious. Who is it?””
The movement stopped.
Then footsteps retreated down the hallway.
I unlocked the door and pulled it open.
The corridor was empty.
I looked toward the stairs.
A shadow moved at the far end.
“Samantha?””
No response.
I stepped into the hallway, but before I could reach the staircase, I heard her voice from downstairs.
“Emily! You should come see something!””
There was something wrong with the way she said my name.
I hurried down the stairs.
Dad was standing in the living room.
Victoria was near the fireplace.
Samantha stood in the center of the room, holding her handbag against her hip.
Her expression was almost cheerful.
“What is it?”” I asked.
She tilted her head toward the stairs.
“Your precious dress.””
My stomach dropped.
I turned and ran back upstairs.
The bedroom door stood wide open.
My heart began pounding before I even reached the threshold.
The garment bag was on the floor.
The hanger lay beside it.
And the ivory dress was no longer hanging where I had left it.
For one terrible second, I couldn't understand what I was seeing.
Then I noticed the fabric.
A long tear ran from the waist down the skirt.
The delicate sleeve had been cut away.
Pearls lay scattered across the hardwood floor like tiny white tears.
I couldn't breathe.
“No.””
I stumbled forward and dropped to my knees.
“No, no, no.””
I gathered a handful of satin.
The fabric slid through my fingers.
Another section had been slashed across the bodice.
The dress my mother had designed.
The dress Margaret had spent months recreating.
The dress Dad had paid for because he wanted to fulfill a promise made by the woman he had loved.
It was ruined.
I heard footsteps behind me.
Samantha appeared in the doorway.
She looked down at the destroyed gown.
Then she laughed.
A real laugh.
Not a nervous one.
Not an embarrassed one.
She was enjoying herself.
I slowly turned toward her.
“Why?””
She shrugged.
“Maybe now you'll understand that the world doesn't revolve around you.””
I stared at her, unable to comprehend how anyone could do something so cruel and look so pleased with herself.
“You destroyed it.””
“It's just a dress.””
“It's my mother's dress!””
“Your mother is dead, Emily!””
The words struck harder than the scissors ever could.
For a moment, I couldn't move.
Then I stood.
“You need to leave.””
She lifted her chin.
“Make me.””
I walked past her and hurried downstairs.
“Dad!””
My voice broke before I reached the living room.
He turned immediately.
“What happened?””
I couldn't speak.
I could only point toward the stairs.
He looked at me, then followed my gaze.
“What is it, sweetheart?””
I swallowed hard.
“Samantha destroyed the dress.””
Silence filled the room.
Victoria's face tightened.
Samantha folded her arms.
“Oh, here we go.””
Dad looked toward the staircase.
“Destroyed it how?””
“With scissors,” I whispered.
“She cut it apart.””
For the first time that evening, Samantha looked slightly uncertain.
Then she recovered.
“She grabbed me first,” she said.
“I was trying to get her to calm down, and she started screaming at me.””
“That isn't true!””
“See?”” Samantha snapped.
“She always does this!””
Dad raised his hand.
“Both of you, stop.””
He looked at me.
“Emily, are you sure?””
The question hurt almost as much as the destruction itself.
I stared at him.
“Yes, Dad.””
My voice trembled.
“I saw what she did.””
He was silent for a long moment.
Then his expression changed.
It wasn't the anger of a man who had been inconvenienced.
It was the fury of someone who had finally understood the depth of a cruelty he had spent years trying to excuse.
He walked toward the kitchen.
When he returned, he was holding a pair of kitchen shears.
Samantha's smile faded.
“Dad?””
He continued toward her.
“Come upstairs.””
She laughed nervously.
“Why?””
“Because I want you to see what you've done.””
Victoria stepped forward.
“Daniel, don't make this into something it isn't.””
He turned toward her.
“Stay out of this.””
I had never heard him speak to her like that.
He walked past Samantha and stopped at the foot of the staircase.
Then he looked at me.
“Emily, show me.””
I led him upstairs.
Samantha followed reluctantly, with Victoria close behind.
When we entered my bedroom, Dad stopped.
The torn gown lay across the floor.
He stared at it for several seconds.
Then he bent down and picked up one of the scattered pearls.
His fingers closed around it.
“Your mother chose these herself,” he whispered.
I began crying again.
Dad stood slowly.
He looked at Samantha.
“Did you do this?””
She crossed her arms.
“It was an accident.””
He glanced at the jagged cuts across the satin.
“An accident?””
“She was provoking me!””
Dad's voice grew quieter.
“Did you cut this dress?””
Samantha looked toward Victoria.
Her mother said nothing.
Then Samantha lifted her chin.
“Fine. Yes. I cut it.””
She stepped closer to Dad, her expression hardening.
“And you know what? I'm not sorry.””
My father stared at her as if he were seeing her for the first time.
Samantha pointed at me.
“Go ahead, Emily. Tell Dad what I did. Let's see if he finally chooses you over the family he actually has left.””
Dad's hand tightened around the kitchen shears.
The room went completely silent.
May you like
And for the first time since he had married Victoria, my father no longer looked like a man searching for a compromise.
He looked like a man who had finally reached his limit.
