That dress became the only thing I had left that didn’t feel like it disappeared.
Then my dad remarried.
Stephanie.
She didn’t like anything in the house that existed before her.
The photos disappeared first.
Then decorations. Then furniture.
“Old,” she called it.
“Tacky.”
One day I came home and our dining table — the one we used every holiday — was gone.
“Refreshing the space,” she said.
It stopped feeling like home after that.
The first time she saw the dress, she laughed.
I was trying it on in my room, standing in front of the mirror.
“You’re not serious,” she said. “You’re wearing that to prom?”
“It was my mom’s,” I told her.
She looked at it like it offended her.
“That thing is ancient. You’ll look like you pulled it out of a donation bin.”
“It’s not about how it looks.”
“It is,” she snapped. “You’re part of this family. You don’t get to embarrass us.”
“I’m wearing it.”
Her expression changed instantly.
“No. You’re wearing the dress I bought. The designer one.”
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