Prom night was meant to be magical — the kind of evening I’d dreamed about for as long as I could remember. The lavender satin gown, the delicate floral embroidery, the straps that shimmered softly under the lights — it was the very dress my mother had worn to her own prom. I used to trace its outline in her scrapbook, whispering to myself, “Someday, that’ll be me.” After cancer took her when I was twelve, that vow became sacred. The dress wasn’t just fabric — it was a living memory. A piece of her that still held her love, her laughter, her presence.
Then Dad got remarried, and everything shifted. Stephanie arrived with her glossy furniture, designer heels, and cold glances. She claimed she was “updating the house,” but in reality, she was slowly wiping away every trace of Mom — one photo, one keepsake at a time. But the dress? That I kept hidden, safe — like a secret I wasn’t willing to surrender.
On prom day, I styled my hair the way Mom used to, clipped in her lavender pin, and carefully unzipped the garment bag.
My breath caught.
The seam had been ripped apart. The bodice was stained with something dark. My fingers trembled as I touched the damage — the truth sinking in. Someone had purposely ruined it.
Then, from behind me, I heard Stephanie’s voice, laced with mock sweetness.
“Oh. You found it.”
