Prom night was supposed to be forgettable, until I stepped out in a dress stitched from my dad’s old uniform. My stepfamily laughed, but a knock at the door changed everything. That night, I discovered the truth about loyalty, loss, and the power of taking back my own story.
The first night I started stitching, my fingers were shaking so hard that I jabbed the needle clean through my thumb. I bit down on a yelp, wiped the blood away, and kept going, careful not to let a single drop stain the olive fabric laid out on my quilt.
I bit down on a yelp, wiped the blood away, and kept going.
If Camila or her daughters caught me with Dad’s old uniform, I knew they’d never let me hear the end of it.
Dad’s jacket was frayed at the cuffs, the edges soft from years of wear.
I’d buried my face in it the night we learned he wasn’t coming home, breathing in traces of his aftershave, salt, and something like machine oil.
Now, every snip of my scissors and tug of thread felt like stitching myself back together.
I knew they’d never let me hear the end of it.
***
I didn’t grow up dreaming of prom. Not like my stepsisters, Lia and Jen did, anyway.
One Saturday morning, I walked into the kitchen and found Lia hunched over a pile of magazines, markers scattered everywhere.
“Chelsea, which one do you like better? Strapless or a sweetheart neckline?” she asked, waving a page in my direction.
Before I could answer, Jen popped a grape into her mouth. “Why bother asking her? She’ll probably go in one of her dad’s flannel shirts or one of her mother’s ancient dresses.”
I didn’t grow up dreaming of prom.
