My mom stitched me a Halloween dress with trembling hands just days before she died. I treasured it… until one night, minutes before I was supposed to wear it, my stepmother made a choice I’ll never forgive. What happened later still gives me chills.
I was 18 when Mom made me the dress.
She was pale and thin, and the lavender lotion she wore barely masked the scent of hospital wipes that clung to her skin.
But she still smiled like I was the only thing holding her together. She’d sit near the window each evening with a lap full of fabric and trembling fingers, threading magic into every stitch.
“You’ll be the prettiest witch in Maple Grove,” she whispered once, brushing the fabric across my cheek. “Not scary.
Magical.”
I’d giggle and spin in place while she measured my waist. “But witches are supposed to be scary, Mom!”
She smiled, tired but soft. “Not my witch.
Mine will bring light. Not darkness.”
Some nights, she’d fall asleep with a needle still in her hand. I’d cover her with a blanket and watch her chest rise and fall, whispering little wishes into the dark, like maybe if I wished hard enough, she’d stay.
Three days after she finished the dress, she was gone.
She never even got to see me wear it.
They buried her in the first week of November.
I remember the casket, the damp leaves under my shoes, and how the lavender clung to my coat like she didn’t want to let go.
After that, everything blurred. Casseroles. Pity cards.
Neighbors whispering things they thought I couldn’t hear. Someone said, “Poor girl. That’ll mark her forever.” Another muttered, “James’s falling apart.”
I didn’t correct them.
They weren’t wrong.
Dad stopped talking much. He’d sit on the porch for hours holding Mom’s favorite mug, like if he stared into it long enough, she’d reappear.
No one mentioned Halloween. No pumpkins, no candy bowls.
The neighborhood still celebrated, but our house was dark and quiet.
I couldn’t bring myself to celebrate Halloween that year. I shoved the dress into a box and locked the memory up with it.
Mom made it for me. That was enough.
But even then, I had no idea just how hard I’d have to fight to keep it.
Dad met Carla the following spring.
She was 42, polite, and always smiling.
She was into charity activities, always quoting inspirational lines and baking sugar-free things that tasted like cardboard.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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