Prom night wasn’t something I was excited about.
I just wanted to get through it.
Smile when I had to. Stay quiet. Go home.
That was the plan.
But everything changed the moment I walked down the stairs.
I was wearing a dress I had made myself.
Not from something new.
From my father’s old army uniform.
It wasn’t perfect.
It wasn’t meant to be.
But it was his.
Every piece of fabric held a memory. Every stitch felt like I was holding on to something I wasn’t ready to lose.
He had taught me how to sew when I was little.
Back when the house still felt like home.
Before everything changed.
After he died, nothing felt the same.
The house became quieter—but not in a peaceful way.
I learned to stay out of the way. To speak less. To exist without being noticed.
So I worked on the dress at night.
Slowly. Carefully.
Like if I rushed, I might lose him all over again.
And when I finally finished it… I knew.
This wasn’t just something to wear.
It was the last piece of him I still had.
When I walked into the living room, they noticed immediately.
My stepmother looked at me like I had done something wrong.
My stepsisters exchanged looks and started laughing.
Not loud.
