The Doll Drama Chronicles
They say every family has its ghosts. Ours were porcelain — and they sat on the living room mantle, staring into our very souls.
Meet the bride and groom china dolls: elegant, immaculate, and utterly terrifying.
Mom treasured them more than anything — and not in a "these go nicely with the curtains" kind of way. No, these were sacred relics. Dad had given them to her early in their marriage, and from that moment on, they were elevated (literally and spiritually) to the highest place in the home: on the living room mantle. Sure, there were other things on the mantle — a clock, a few knick knacks — but to us, it felt like only the dolls were really there. Watching.
They stood there, year after year, faces frozen in romantic bliss and quiet judgment. The bride, holding her ornate fan with a knowing look. The groom, with one hand tucked casually into his cape like he was ready to issue a royal decree: "You there — child — stop breathing near us."
As kids, we were terrified. Not of monsters under the bed or creaks in the attic — we were afraid of the dolls. Not because they moved (though we sometimes swore they did), but because if anything happened to them... well, let’s just say we weren’t sure Mom could emotionally recover.
Now, we were careful. Very careful. But life has its moments. And over the years, each of us had our own personal brush with porcelain disaster.
Jim was the first. His basketball bounced down the stairs (don’t ask why there was a basketball upstairs), and with one perfectly tragic bounce, it struck the base of the mantle just hard enough to jostle the dolls. They wobbled — dramatically, we imagine — but somehow stayed upright. Jim later admitted he stood frozen, holding his breath, watching them settle. No witnesses, no casualties. Just sheer luck... and a silent vow never to tell Mom.
Bill was the next. He was alone in the room when he bumped the mantle — just a small stumble, but enough to send one of the dolls teetering over the edge. Time froze. The groom doll slipped forward, plummeting straight toward the hardwood floor… and miraculously landed in the wing chair below. Bill stood there in stunned silence, pulse racing, unsure whether he’d just avoided death or summoned a curse. He carefully picked up the doll, returned it to its rightful place, and made sure every detail was just as it had been. Not a chip. Not a scratch. Not a word to Mom. Just a quiet moment of survival.
Laurie had her moment a few years later. A balloon, some static electricity, and one wrong step near the mantle — and suddenly the bride was airborne. Like a scene from a slow-motion thriller, she tumbled… and landed right where Bill’s had: in the wing chair. Once again, disaster averted. That chair had quietly become our unsung hero.
And while Jim, Bill and Laurie came clean with each other about their own near disasters, Rick kept quiet. For years, we each suspected he’d had his own close calls, but he never confessed to anything specific. Eventually, though, he did admit this: he’d seen blemishes on the dolls — tiny scuffs, chips or marks and just gave a shrug and said, “Yeah, I saw them.” That was all we got. Classic Rick.
Funny enough, Mom had her own story — which she shared with a few family members over the years. According to her, it was the cat who once leapt up on the mantle and knocked the dolls down. She said that’s how the chip got in the groom’s shoe. We never saw that cat go anywhere near the mantle, but hey, if that’s the version she wanted to believe, who were we to argue? Besides, the cat couldn’t talk back.
When Mom passed, Bill and Laurie talked about what to do with the dolls. They were her treasures — her silent sentinels — and we knew there was no question. They were going with her. So now, the bride and groom have been tucked in with her, right where they belong, continuing their eternal vigil by her side.
And we’re finally free. Free from their porcelain stares, their delicate wobbles, and the unrelenting fear of accidental mantle bumping.