There were twenty-three people in my house that morning, and somehow none of them noticed my daughter crying in the laundry room.

I only found Lily by accident. I was looking for extra napkins when I heard the soft, broken sound of someone trying not to sob. She was crouched beside the dryer with her knees pulled tight to her chest, her face buried in the sleeve of her sweatshirt. She was crying quietly, the way children learn to do when they don’t want to become another problem for the adults rushing past them.

Her shoulders shook unevenly, each breath catching like it hurt.

I knelt behind her and wrapped my arms around her without saying a word. I didn’t rush her. I didn’t ask what happened. I just held her, the same way I used to when nightmares sent her padding down the hallway years ago, when the world still felt manageable if someone was there to steady it.

“I checked it again, Mom,” she whispered finally. “Last night. Before bed. It was perfect then. I swear.”

My stomach dropped. I didn’t need her to say anything else.

She was talking about my wedding dress.

Lily had knitted it herself—months of careful stitches, grief turned into something soft and strong. I’d hung it in the upstairs closet like it was made of glass.

“It doesn’t make sense,” she said, her voice small. “Why would someone do that?”

I didn’t answer, because the truth was already sitting heavy in my chest.

I went upstairs.

The moment I opened the closet door, I knew it wasn’t an accident. The bodice wasn’t snagged or torn—it had been ripped, stitches yanked out in angry, deliberate lines. And across the skirt was a dark red stain that didn’t look like a spill.