Asking for a Dress
Three weeks before prom, I told Carla I needed a dress. She was scrolling on her phone in the kitchen.
“Prom dresses are a ridiculous waste of money,” she said.
“Mom left money for things like this,” I reminded her.
She gave a cruel little laugh. “That money keeps this house running now. And honestly? No one wants to see you prancing around in some overpriced princess costume.”
I pushed back. “So there’s money for that.”
Her tone sharpened. “Watch your tone. I am keeping this family afloat. You have no idea what things cost.”
“Then why did Dad say the money was ours?” I asked.
Her voice went flat. “Because your father was bad with money and bad with boundaries.”
I went upstairs and cried into my pillow, feeling twelve years old again.
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