Prom was supposed to be a time of glitter, soothing music, and pretending the future wasn’t scary. I was always going to choose 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 composed of lavender satin and had little flowers sewn into it. The spaghetti straps shone in the light. I would sit on her lap and trace the images of her with it on when I was a kid. She had hair from the late 1990s, lip gloss, and a smile that made everything seem easy.
I said to her once, “I’ll wear your dress to the dance.”
“Then we’ll keep it safe until then,” she said.
Cancer didn’t follow its promise. When I was twelve, she was gone. The house went quiet, and it felt like a choice. If we didn’t talk so loudly, maybe we wouldn’t see the empty chair. My dad did his best. We learned how to make it through with microwave lunches and quiet times. That outfit was the only thing I could still hold on to that sounded like her voice.
Then Dad got married again.
Stephanie came in white leather and with ideas. She called the angel sculptures on the mantel “junk” and put shiny marble on our oak table, which always felt cold. “Refreshing the space,” she would say. “Give her time,” my dad would say as he hugged my shoulder. But every time I “refreshed,” a part of my mom went away.
I was spinning in the dress before prom, looking at the hem in the mirror. It was the first time Stephanie had seen it. She stood in the doorway with a glass of wine and a crease on her nose.
She said, “You can’t be serious.” “Do you want to wear that to the prom?”
I said, “It was my mom’s,” as I smoothed the satin. “I’ve always wanted to.”
She set 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 about the memory.”
Her voice was smooth and penetrating as she moved closer. “You can’t wear that old thing.” You will put dishonor on our family. I spent a lot of money on a fancy dress for you. You will wear that.
“I am not your daughter,” I said, and the words came out before I could stop them.
Her jaw got hard. “Your mother is gone.” As your mom, I won’t let you make us look stupid.
I pressed the satin against my chest like it would make the ache go away. “This is all I have left of her.”
Once she laughed, and it was cruel. “Stop with the show. 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 up my decision that I would wear it. Let the photographs be what they are; I was the one who had to honor them.
Dad got home late and smelled like the rain and the warehouse. He kissed me on the forehead and added, “I’ll be working a double on prom day.” “But I’ll be here when you get back.” I want to see you in the dress your mom gave you.
I said, “I promise you’ll be proud.”
“I’m already,” he said.
I was nervous and had a lot of eyelashes on prom day. I curled my hair like Mom’s pictures and used her lavender clip to hold it up. I also kept the makeup light like she always did for school plays. My hands shook with excitement as I opened the bag.
The clothing fell apart.
The seam came apart from the bodice to the hip. There was a big brown stain on the front. Fingerprints were on the black smudges on the needlework. My legs gave out, and the satin fell into my lap.
“No,” I said under my breath, but it wasn’t a word.
“Oh. You found it,” Stephanie said with a smile from the door, as if she had just won a game. “I told you not to be stubborn.”
“You did this?”
She stepped over my crushed heart like it was a sock on the floor and said, “I couldn’t let you humiliate us.” “You were going to show up looking like a ghost.” Thank your lucky stars; today you’ll wear the dress that genuinely belongs in this century.
I said, “It was my mom’s.” “I don’t have anything else.”
She rolled her eyes. “Get older.”
The sound of her shoes clicking down the hall. I stayed on the carpet with the dress in my arms and a sob that made it hard to breathe.
“Hey, Megan?” I could hear my grandma’s voice coming up the stairs. “Sweetheart? The door was 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.” We won’t let that woman win.
Downstairs, the home was pretty quiet. Stephanie never came near us, not even when Grandma was around. She felt small when she was seen.
Grandma used lemon and peroxide to clean for two hours. She was shivering from being tired, yet her hands stayed firm. She stitched the seam together with tiny, exact pieces of thread. When she adjusted my stuffed animals as a kid, she always had her tongue in the corner of her mouth.
“Put it on,” she finally said.
There were some problems with it. The seam was a little tighter, and the bodice was a little looser. But it was a miracle: it was purple again, the stitching was almost perfect, and it still looked like her. When I looked in the mirror, I saw my mom’s smile in my own worried smile.
My grandma kissed me on the forehead. “Go shine for both of you.” She’ll be with you.
I believed in her.
It seemed like I was going through a story I had been composing since I was seven. The DJ’s lights made the satin shimmer, 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 just before midnight, Dad was waiting for me in the hall. He was still in his uniform and looked worn out. He saw me and held his breath for a second.
His voice broke as he replied, “You look beautiful.” “You look just like your mom did that night.”
He hugged me, and all of my calmness left my body and went into his shirt.
Stephanie showed up at the end of the hall, her eyes narrowing. “Is this all there is? You let her make us look awful in that stupid magazine? James, people probably thought it was funny. Do you see how this makes our family appear sad?
Dad’s face stayed the same, but something inside him got hard, like concrete. He put his arm around my neck. “No,” he said softly. “She paid tribute to her mother tonight.” I’ve never been more proud.
“You two and your poor-man mentality!” Stephanie yelled and crossed her arms. “Do you really think a five-dollar dress makes you special?” “You’ll always be little people with little dreams.”
My neck got hot, but Dad drew closer, steel under velvet. “My dead wife owned that ‘five-dollar suit.’ I told our daughter she could wear it to the prom. 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 had left of her mother.” “I won’t let you hurt her memory again.”
“Are you choosing her over me?” “Is that really possible?” Stephanie asked.
He said, “Every time.”
Grandma’s voice rang out in the living room, harsh as a slap. “Be careful what you say, Stephanie.” You should be thankful I didn’t tell James more bad things.
Stephanie’s cheeks turned pale. She took her purse with hands that were shaking. “Okay,” she said, elevating her chin. “Stay in your sad bubble.” I won’t be a part of it.
The door slammed shut. The silence she left behind was like a breath of fresh air after a storm.
Dad stroked a lock of hair from my face. He said, “Your mom would be so proud.”
I said, “I know,” and I did. It was the first time in years that I did it.
The next morning, Grandma brought muffins and a crossword problem. We had dinner at the kitchen island. I was wearing flannel, Dad was wearing a faded T-shirt, and Grandma was complaining about the people who wrote the clues. It was like serenity had quietly come in and sat down.
That night, I put the purple piece of clothing back in my closet. A thin, straight line held the two sides together, and if you looked closely, you could still see the seam. It didn’t make it weaker. It was 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 unzip the bag and remember who you are.
