Around 3:00 a.m., I stood up. My legs were shaky, but my mind felt strangely clear. The dresses were unsalvageable. Even if a seamstress lived next door, there was no putting them back together. My father had made sure of that.

Fine. Let the dresses be ruined. Let them lie there like symbols of everything my family thought I wasn’t worth.

I took a long breath and exhaled through my teeth, steadying my voice. Then I began packing. Slow, methodical, the way I’d been trained. My heels, toiletries, paperwork for the ceremony, the small photo of my fiancé tucked neatly into its frame. The card he’d given me: Whatever tomorrow looks like, I’ll be waiting. I placed it inside my bag.

And then, without hesitation, I reached into the back of my closet, past old shoes, past forgotten boxes, to the garment bag I kept for occasions that demanded strength, not softness.