Prom was supposed to sparkle, but for me it was lavender—my mom’s satin dress with tiny embroidered flowers. She promised to keep it safe. Cancer broke that before I turned twelve.
When Dad remarried, Stephanie sneered at the dress. “You’ll look like a thrift store reject.” I said, “It’s all I have left.” She smiled coldly.
On prom day, the dress was ruined—ripped and stained. Stephanie watched, triumphant. But Grandma arrived, sewing kit in hand. Together we scrubbed and stitched until lavender bloomed again.
At prom, friends gasped. “It was my mom’s,” I said.
When I came home, Dad whispered, “You look just like her.”
The seam wasn’t perfect—but neither is love. It still holds.
