Prom night was supposed to be a dream come true — a night I’d imagined since I was little. The lavender satin dress, the embroidered flowers, the delicate straps that shimmered in the light — it was the same one my mom wore to her prom. I used to trace it in her scrapbook and whisper, “One day, I’ll wear this too.” That promise became sacred after cancer took her when I was twelve. The dress became a memory I could touch — the last piece of her warmth, her laughter, her love.
When Dad remarried, everything changed. Stephanie moved in with her perfect furniture, designer shoes, and sharp words. She called it “refreshing the space,” but really, she was erasing Mom one picture frame at a time. Still, I held onto the dress — tucked away like a secret.
The day of prom, I curled my hair like Mom used to, slipped on her lavender clip, and unzipped the garment bag. My heart stopped. The seam was torn open, the bodice stained dark. My hands shook as I realized — someone had destroyed it.
From the doorway came Stephanie’s voice, dripping with smugness.
“Oh. You found it.”
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