I didn’t answer.
During the following weeks, things only got worse. Sarcastic comments echoed in the hallways. “So what’s she going to wear?” someone blurted out. “Something secondhand? It’s going to be embarrassing.”
The week before the dance, she went all out. “The dance is for teenagers, not for middle-aged women trying to relive their youth. Honestly, it’s pathetic.”
I felt like exploding. Instead, I smiled and thanked her for her “opinion.”
Because by then, I already had a plan.
On the night of the dance, my mom looked incredible. Nothing flashy. Nothing out of place. Simply elegant. Her hair fell in soft, vintage-style waves. She wore a dusty blue dress that made her eyes sparkle. When she saw herself in the mirror, she cried. So did I.
She was nervous the whole way there. “What if people stare?” “What if your friends think this is weird?” “What if I ruin your night?”
I took his hand and told him the truth. “You built my whole life from scratch. You can’t ruin anything.”
In the schoolyard, people did stare, but not in the way she feared. Other parents congratulated her. My friends hugged her. The teachers told her how beautiful and moving the idea was. I saw her shoulders relax; I saw her realize she belonged there.
Then Brianna arrived.
She wore a sparkly dress that drew everyone’s attention and stood close to the photographer. She said aloud, “Wait a minute, what are you doing here? Is this a dance or a family visit?”
The laughter from his group hit me like a slap in the face.
My mother froze. She grabbed my arm. I felt her trying to back away.
Brianna squeezed harder. “This is awkward. You’re too old for this, Emma. No offense, but this is for real students.”
I felt a chill.
