The prom night was supposed to be something she was just going to get through.
Smile when necessary. Be silent. Go home.
That was the plan.
But everything changed the moment I went downstairs.
I was wearing a dress that I had made myself, from the fabric of my father’s old military uniform.
Not because it was perfect.
Because it was his.
Every stitch had a meaning. Every piece of fabric held a memory she wasn’t ready to let go of.
She taught me to sew when I was younger. Back in those days when life still felt… complete.
After his death, the house changed.
Not out loud.
Even worse: silent, cutting laughter. The kind that leaves an indelible mark.
“Is that supposed to be a dress?” one of them asked.
I didn’t answer.
I just stood there.
Because I knew that if I said anything, my voice would tremble.
Then there was a knock at the door.
