For one second, I thought he finally understood.
Then Shirley called from the kitchen.
“Hopefully she doesn’t spend the entire night crying like her.”
Dad flinched.
I stared at him.
“Say something.”
He barely managed, “Shirley, please.”
That was all.
When Gary arrived, he looked at me and smiled.
“You’re beautiful.”
At prom, I finally began relaxing.
Friends complimented the dress.
When I told them my mother had made it, their expressions softened.
Gary handed me a cup of punch.
“She would be proud of you.”
Then the doors opened for the parent chaperones.
I looked for Dad.
Instead, I saw Shirley.
My cup slipped from my hand.
She was wearing my mother’s dress.
Not the original—but an almost perfect copy.
Same dusty pink fabric.
Same fitted bodice.
Same handmade-looking flowers.
The only thing missing was Mom’s tiny blue K.
Someone whispered, “Is that Delilah’s mother?”
