The morning of my daughter Sophie’s school pageant should have been filled with excitement and pride. Instead, I found her sobbing in the dressing room, clutching the ruined remains of her handmade dress. A jagged rip ran down one side, the bodice was singed, and a sticky, sour-smelling stain spread across the fabric. My stomach dropped. I knew, in my heart, who had done it and it hurt more than I could say.
Weeks earlier, Sophie and her stepsister, Liza, had asked me to make them matching dresses for the big day. I poured my heart into sewing pale blue satin gowns with tiny embroidered flowers, watching them giggle and twirl during fittings. It was a bonding moment until my mother-in-law, Wendy, made it painfully clear that Sophie, my daughter from a previous relationship, wasn’t part of her family. “She’s not David’s real daughter,” she snapped when I confronted her for giving Liza a special gift and ignoring Sophie. “Family is blood,” she added coldly, making her stance crystal clear.
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