The point of prom was to have fun, listen to pleasant music, and pretend that the future wasn’t scary. I was always going to pick lavender.
I had taken my mom’s prom dress out of the garment bag in the back of my closet a thousand times. It was made of lavender satin and had little flowers sewn on it. The light hit the spaghetti straps. When I was a youngster, I would sit on her lap and trace the images of her with it on. She had hair from the late 1990s, lip gloss, and a smile that made everything seem easy.
I told her once, “I’ll wear your dress to the dance.”
“Then we’ll keep it safe until then,” she said.
Cancer didn’t do what it said it would. She was gone by the time I was twelve. It was like a choice for the home to go quiet. If we didn’t chat so loudly, we might not see the empty chair. My dad did his best. We learned how to get by with microwave meals and quiet times. That outfit was the only thing I could still hold that sounded like her voice.
After that, Dad got married again.
Stephanie came in white leather and with her own ideas. She called the angel sculptures on the mantel “junk” and put shiny marble on our oak table, which always felt cold. She would say, “Refreshing the space.” “Give her time,” my dad would say as he hugged my shoulder. But every time I “refreshed,” I lost a part of my mom.
I was spinning in the dress before prom and looked at the hem in the mirror. It was the first time Stephanie saw it. She was standing in the door with a glass of wine and a wrinkle on her nose.
“You can’t be serious,” she said. “You want to wear that to the dance?”
I said, “It was my mom’s,” as I brushed out the satin. “I’ve always wanted to.”
She slammed her glass down too hard. “Megan, that thing is years old.” It will look like you bought it at a thrift store.
“It’s not about how it looks.” It’s the memory that matters.
She moved closer, and her voice was beautiful and sharp. “You can’t wear that old thing.” You will make our family seem bad. I spent a lot of money on a fancy dress for you. You’re going to wear that.
“I am not your daughter,” I said, and the words came out before I could stop them.
Her jaw became stiff. “Your mother is no longer here.” I won’t let you make a fool of us, because I’m your mother.
I pushed the satin against my chest like it would help the ache go away. “This is all I have left of her.”
She laughed once, and it was cruel. “Stop with the drama. You will wear what I want you to, smile for pictures, and stop acting like this house belongs to a dead woman.
I cried into the garment that night and whispered sorry to someone who couldn’t hear me. I made a decision: I will wear it. Let the visuals be what they are; this was mine to honor.
Dad came home late and smelled like the rain and the warehouse. He kissed me on the forehead and said, “I’ll be working a double on prom night.” “But I’ll be here when you come back.” I want to see you in your mom’s dress.
“I promise you’ll be proud,” I said.
“I already am,” he said.
I was full of worries and eyelashes on prom day. I curled my hair like Mom’s pictures, used her lavender clip to hold it up, and kept the makeup light like she always did for school plays. I was so pleased that my hands shook when I opened the bag.
The dress fell out and got ruined.
The seam tore from the bodice to the hip. On the front, there was a big brown stain. The black marks on the embroidery looked like fingerprints. My legs gave out, and the satin pooled in my lap.
“No,” I said, but it wasn’t a word; it was just breath.
“Oh. You found it,” Stephanie said from the door, smiling like she had just won a game. “I told you not to be so stubborn.”
“Did you do this?”
She stepped over my crushed heart like it was a sock on the floor and said, “I couldn’t let you embarrass us.” “You were going to look like a ghost when you got here.” Be thankful; today you’ll wear the clothing that genuinely fits in this century.
I answered, “It belonged to my mom.” “That’s all I have.”
She rolled her eyes. “Grow up.”
The sound of her heels clicking as she walked down the hall. I stayed on the carpet with the clothes in my arms and a sob that made it hard to breathe.
“Megan?” I could hear my grandma’s voice coming up the steps. “Sweetheart? The door was slightly open.
She found me on the floor, looked at the dress, and was shocked immediately away. “Get the sewing kit,” she said softly as she rolled up her sleeves. “And hydrogen peroxide. That woman is not going to win.
Downstairs, the home was pretty quiet. Not even when Grandma was there did Stephanie come near us. She felt little while she was visible.
Grandma used lemon and peroxide to clean for two hours. Even though she was tired and shaking, her hands maintained firm. She stitched the seam together with very little, exact pieces of thread. When mother adjusted my stuffed animals as a kid, her tongue was usually in the corner of her mouth.
“Put it on,” she finally told him.
It wasn’t perfect. The seam was a little stronger, and the bodice was a little tighter. But it was a miracle: the purple was back, the stitching was almost perfect, and the shape was still hers. I saw my mom’s smile in my own worried smile when I looked in the mirror.
Grandma kissed me on the head. “Go shine for both of you.” She’ll be there with you.
I had faith in her.
It felt like I was living out a story I had been writing since I was seven. The DJ’s lights shone on the satin, and my friends gasped. When people asked, I told them it was my mom’s, and saying it out loud made me feel better.
When I returned home shortly before midnight, Dad was waiting for me in the hallway. He was still in his uniform and looked exhausted. He saw me and held his breath for a while.
He said, “You look beautiful,” and his voice broke. “You look just like your mom did that night.”
He held me, and all of my calmness went into his shirt.
At the end of the hall, Stephanie’s gaze narrowed. “Is this all? You let her make us seem bad in that awful magazine? People undoubtedly thought it was funny, James. Can you see how terrible this makes our family look?
Dad’s face didn’t change, but something inside him got rigid like concrete. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders. He said softly, “No.” “She honored her mother tonight. I have never felt so proud.
Stephanie said, “You two and your poor-man mentality!” and crossed her arms. “Do you really think that a five-dollar dress makes you special?” “You’ll always be small people with small dreams.”
My neck got hot, but Dad drew closer, like steel under silk. “My late wife had that “five-dollar dress.” I told our daughter she could wear it to the dance. You tried to take that away from her.
“I was protecting our image,” she said, her voice quivering.
He said, “You were taking away everything she has left of her mother.” “I won’t let you hurt her memory again.”
“You’re choosing her over me?” Stephanie asked, as if it were impossible.
He said, “Every time.”
Grandma’s voice cut through the living room like a smack. “Watch what you say, Stephanie. You should be happy I didn’t tell James worse.
Stephanie’s cheeks turned pale. With shaking hands, she took her handbag. “Okay,” she said, lifting her chin. “Stay in your sad bubble.” I won’t take part.
The door slammed shut. The silence she left behind was like fresh air after a storm.
Dad brushed a curl of hair from my cheek. He said, “Your mother would be so proud.”
“I know,” I said, and I did. It was the first time I had done it in years.
The next morning, Grandma came over with warm muffins and a crossword puzzle. We had dinner at the kitchen island. I was on flannel, Dad had on a faded T-shirt, and Grandma was complaining about the people who wrote the clues. It seemed like peace had quietly sat down.
That night, I put the purple dress back in my closet. There was a narrow, straight line that held the two sides together, so if you looked closely, you could still see the seam. It didn’t make it less strong. It became ours.
Love doesn’t go away simply because someone tries to scrape it off or tear it in half. It was fixed. It gets stronger. It hangs in the dark, waiting for you to open the bag and remember who you are.