I found Clara downstairs arranging fruit at the makeshift breakfast table, calm and polished as if nothing were wrong. I asked her to step into the hallway, where the noise of the house softened behind a closed door. I told her what I had discovered, and when her gaze flickered toward the stairs, her silence spoke louder than denial. Daniel arrived moments later, confusion turning to disbelief as I explained. He looked at his sister, then at me, and made his choice without hesitation. Clara was asked to apologize to Lily and leave the house. There was no shouting, only a quiet firmness that settled the matter. Lily, holding the damaged dress in her lap, listened as Clara muttered an apology before walking away for good.

With time slipping away before the ceremony, Lily and I sat together and repaired what we could. She worked quickly, re-knitting loose sections and reinforcing the weakened stitches. The dress would never look exactly as it had, but the new threads told a story of resilience rather than loss. When I finally walked down the aisle that afternoon, the yarn caught the light, and Lily sat in the front row watching proudly. The dress was imperfect, but it was ours—stronger in meaning than in design. Later, as the house quieted and the last guests left, Daniel held my hands and said, “No one can undo what Lily made for us.” And in that moment, I knew our family’s bond was far stronger than any thread.