Prom is supposed to be one of the highlights of high school. Months in advance, everyone around me buzzed about dresses, limos, corsages, and playlists. Even in our small town, prom was the event everyone looked forward to.
For me, it wasn’t just about excitement—it was about survival. Ever since my dad remarried, I felt like an outsider in my own home. Prom became my goal, the one thing I could control, the finish line I had been working toward for years.
I started saving at the end of sophomore year. Babysitting, mowing lawns, stacking shelves at the grocery store—every dollar went into a shoebox hidden under my bed. I dreamed of the moment I’d finally wear that perfect dress and feel like I belonged.
By senior spring, I had enough for everything: the dress, the shoes, the hair, even a small cushion for emergencies. I was proud—ready to stand on my own. But two weeks before prom, everything collapsed.
I came home to find my shoebox gone. When I asked my stepmom, she didn’t even flinch.
“Oh, that? I borrowed it. We needed to cover a bill. You’ll live.”
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