The air in the garden seemed frozen in time. It was dense, heavy, as if saturated not only with the scents of summer but also with something bitter and acrid—the smell of burnt plastic and a sickly sweet rot, nauseatingly familiar, like an echo of the past suddenly bursting forth from the locked doors of memory. The silence was so complete that even the leaves on the trees did not stir, afraid to break this ominous calm.
Igor didn’t answer again. His phone stubbornly cut off the call after the first ring, as if refusing to connect us. And yet, he had promised to be here half an hour ago. We were supposed to pick up the last details for tomorrow together—the day of our wedding. A day I had prepared for years, dreamed about, cried over, planned. And now, instead of seeing his face, I was staring at the screen that displayed: «Call ended.»
I went out into the yard, feeling anxiety slowly crawl toward my heart. Behind the house, in the far corner under an old gazebo, my dress awaited me—in a large cover, neatly hung on a metal rod. But next to it, by a black rusty barrel from which bluish smoke was curling, stood Tamara Pavlovna. She was calmly trimming roses, her movements measured, almost mechanical, as if she had been doing this her whole life, as if nothing unusual was happening around.
“Tamara Pavlovna?” I called out, trying to keep my voice steady though everything inside was already trembling. “Are you burning something? The smell is… strange. Acrid.”
She didn’t turn around. Only for a fraction of a second did she pause, the pruning shears hanging over a bud before she carefully snipped away the excess.
“I’m burning the excess, Anechka,” she said softly, almost kindly. “Everything that could spoil a new life. You have to get rid of the junk before it takes root in your home.”
My heart clenched. I took a few steps closer, and the smell became unbearable. Nausea rose to my throat as I saw among the charred scraps of fabric something that couldn’t belong to this nightmare.
The edge of melted lace—the very one we had chosen with my mother in a small atelier on the embankment. Beads scattered in the ash like dead teeth. My wedding. My dress. My dream.
Blood drained from my face. Darkness clouded my vision, and the world around fell silent. I looked at the remnants of my future life, at what had been the symbol of my happiness just a day ago.
“This is…” The words wouldn’t come out; they caught in my throat like needles.
“Yes,” she finally turned around. Her face was calm, serene, as if she had done a good deed.
Not a hint of regret. Not a drop of fear or guilt. Just certainty. The cold, hard certainty of a woman who saw herself as a judge.
“I burned your wedding dress.”
Her gaze pinned me in place. She approached, and I instinctively stepped back. Every movement, every emotion on my face was read by her like an open book.
“Why?” I whispered, unable to force out another word.
“You failed the test, girl. I gave you a chance. I left you in our house, next to the bride’s most precious possession—her dress. And you didn’t even bother to take it right away. You left it hanging like an unwanted thing.”
“I trusted you!” I shouted, my voice breaking. “We’re family! The wedding is tomorrow!”
“Exactly. Tomorrow. I had time to fix everything.”
She spoke so matter-of-factly, as if discussing groceries or the weather. Then she added a phrase that turned me into an ice statue:
“I did it because you are not worthy of my son. And I won’t let him make a mistake he will regret his whole life.”
Her words echoed in my head. I looked at this woman whom I once called my second mother and realized: she had declared war on me. And I didn’t even know the war had already begun.
Igor appeared suddenly. The gate slammed, and he walked into the garden. A guilty smile, a confused look. He didn’t know what was happening.
“Sorry, I was held up. Dad asked me to help with some documents. Are you ready? Anya? What’s wrong with you?”
He noticed my state, noticed my mother standing by the barrel. His smile faded, replaced by confusion.
“Mom? What’s going on here?”
Tamara Pavlovna put the pruning shears into the basket, straightened up, and looked at her son with an expression of sorrow and wisdom.
“Son, I saved you from a great misfortune. There will be no wedding.”
“What do you mean, no wedding?” Igor looked at us bewildered. “What kind of joke is this? Anya, say something!”
I silently pointed to the barrel. He approached, looked inside, and I saw his shoulders tense. He turned, and in his eyes was pain. Deep, real pain.
“Mom. What. Have. You. Done?”
“What I had to. Your bride left her dress unattended. That’s a sign. She doesn’t value what should be sacred to her. She won’t value you or our family either.”
“That was Anya’s dress! Our wedding dress! Have you lost your mind?!”
“On the contrary, son. I have never been more sane.”
She reached out her hand, but he pulled his away like it was fire.
“I’m saving your life. That girl is not right for you.”
At that moment, the buzzing in my head stopped. I looked straight at Igor.
“Your mother burned my dress. She said I’m not worthy of you. And then she lied to you that I’m unwell.”
Igor looked at his mother, and I could see the battle inside him between love for the woman who raised him and shock at her monstrous act. He looked lost, crushed.
“Mom… how could you…”
“Don’t worry, I’ve taken care of everything,” she said coldly. “I’ve already called all the guests. Told them the wedding is canceled by mutual agreement. To avoid unnecessary talk.”
The world tilted. She didn’t just burn the dress. She erased our future. Canceled it like an annoying appointment.
Igor grabbed his head.
“You called the guests? You told them the wedding won’t happen? Without us knowing?”
“It was a necessary decision,” she cut in. “You’ll thank me later. When you realize what mistake I saved you from.”
I looked at Igor. This was the crucial moment. The moment of truth that would determine everything. He had to choose.
He raised his eyes to me, full of despair. They swam with horror, pain, but I saw none of the main thing — resolve. He was his mother’s son. A product of her upbringing, her will.
And then I understood that she had won. Not because she burned the dress. But because she raised a son who, at the most important moment of his life, looks at me as if I am the problem to be solved, not the woman to be protected.
Igor’s helpless look was the last straw for me. All the pain, all the shock suddenly subsided, leaving behind a cold, crystalline understanding.
I slowly exhaled. Then I smiled.
Igor flinched. Even Tamara Pavlovna, who had kept an Olympic calm until then, raised an eyebrow in surprise. My smile was utterly inappropriate in this tragedy.
“You know, Tamara Pavlovna,” my voice was steady and even friendly, “you’re right.”
She was taken aback. Igor looked at me as if I were speaking a foreign language.
“What are you talking about?” he stammered.
I turned my gaze to him.
“Your mother is right. I really am not worthy of you. I deserve a man who will be my support. Who will stand up for me even if the whole world is against me. Especially if it’s his own mother.
I deserve a man who, seeing the ashes of my dress, won’t helplessly look at his mom but will take my hand and walk away with me forever.
And you… you wait. You wait for me to cry and for your mom to celebrate.”
I looked at Tamara Pavlovna again.
“Thank you,” I said sincerely. “You have no idea what mistake you saved me from. You burned only a dress. But I almost burned my whole life by tying it to your son.”
For the first time, something like confusion appeared on her face. She was used to tears and scandals. My calmness and gratitude knocked the ground from beneath her feet.
“What are you saying?” she hissed.
“The truth,” I shrugged. “And one more thing. Since the wedding is canceled, the gifts need to be returned.”
I took off the engagement ring with a small diamond from my finger. The very one Igor had slipped on six months ago when proposing on the rooftop overlooking the night city.
I didn’t offer it to Igor. I went to the barrel with ashes.
“Anya, don’t!” Igor finally shouted, realizing what I was about to do.
But it was too late. I unclenched my fingers, and the ring, sparkling in farewell, disappeared into the gray mass of ashes and burnt fabric.
“Look for it. Maybe it’s also some kind of sign. A test of the strength of your relationship,” I smiled again. “And it’s time for me to go.”
I turned and walked toward the gate without looking back. I heard Igor shouting something after me. I heard his mother’s indignant cry. But their voices were now just background noise to me.
Stepping outside, I took out my phone. My hands trembled a little, but not from grief — from adrenaline.
I found the number of my best friend in the contacts, who was supposed to be my witness.
“Katya? Hi. I have some changes in plans,” I said into the phone, feeling a smile return to my lips.
A real, happy one.
“There will be no wedding tomorrow. But the party is still on. Gather the girls. We have a better reason to celebrate. We’re celebrating my freedom.”
