“Stop it, Megan! I’m the one in charge now. I’m your mother, do you hear me? And you’ll do as I say. You’ll wear the gown I chose, the one that shows you’re part of my family. Not that pathetic dress.”
If you haven’t noticed, my stepmom only cared about appearances.
That night, I cried with the dress crumpled in my arms, whispering apologies to a mom who couldn’t hear them. But I made a decision. I would wear it no matter what Stephanie thought. I wouldn’t let her erase my mom from this house. Not entirely.
When my dad got home, I didn’t tell him what Stephanie said or the argument we had.
He apologized, telling me he had to work a double shift on prom day. My dad was a regional manager at a warehouse company, and end-of-quarter logistics had pulled him in.
“I’ll be back by the time you return,” he promised, kissing my forehead. “I want to see my girl looking like a princess in her mother’s dress.” He already knew which dress I wanted to wear for prom; we’d spoken about it many times.
“You’ll be proud,” I said, hugging him tight.
“I already am,” he whispered.
The following morning, I woke up with butterflies. I did my makeup the way my mom used to — soft blush and natural lips. I curled my hair and even found the lavender clip she once used to pin hers back. By early afternoon, everything was ready.
I walked upstairs to put on the dress, my heart beating so fast it felt like I could barely breathe.
But when I unzipped the garment bag, I froze.
