Prom for me was never sequins and lights—it was lavender. My mom’s satin dress with “tiny embroidered flowers and straps that caught the light.” She promised I’d wear it, but cancer took her before I was twelve, leaving the dress as all I had left.
When Dad remarried, Stephanie dismissed it. “You’ll look like you pulled it from a thrift bin. I bought you a designer gown—you’ll wear that.” I held the dress. “It’s all I have left of her.” Stephanie snapped back, “Stop acting like this house belongs to a dead woman.”
On prom day, the lavender satin was ruined—“ripped, stained, smeared.” Stephanie smirked, certain she’d won. But Grandma came, rolled up her sleeves, and after hours of scrubbing and stitching said, “Go shine for both of you.”
At prom, friends gasped. “It was my mom’s,” I told them, feeling something mend inside me. When Dad saw me, he whispered, “You look just like your mom.” Stephanie raged, but he stood firm: “She honored her mother tonight. I’ll always choose her.”
The next morning, over Grandma’s muffins, peace returned. And in my closet, the mended dress waited—proof that love doesn’t tear. It holds.
