I’m Megan. I’m 17.
And for as long as I can remember, I knew exactly what I was going to wear to prom.
Not something new.
Not something expensive.
My mom’s dress.
It was lavender. Soft satin. Simple, but beautiful in a way that never fades.
There are photos of her wearing it — standing on a porch, smiling like the world was hers.
When I was little, I used to sit next to her and look at those photos for hours.
“One day,” I’d tell her, “I’m going to wear this too.”
She’d smile and smooth the fabric with her hand.
“Then we’ll keep it safe,” she’d say.
We didn’t.
Because life didn’t.
Cancer took her when I was 12.
One year she was making pancakes and singing badly in the kitchen.
The next, she was too weak to stand.
And then she was gone.
After that, everything felt… quiet.
Not peaceful. Just empty.
My dad tried. I know he did.
But we weren’t really living. We were just getting through days.
I kept the dress.
I hid it in the back of my closet, inside a garment bag.
Sometimes I’d take it out just to touch it.
It still felt like her.
That dress became the only thing I had left that didn’t feel like it disappeared.
Then my dad remarried.
Stephanie.
She didn’t like anything in the house that existed before her.
The photos disappeared first.
Then decorations. Then furniture.
“Old,” she called it.
“Tacky.”
One day I came home and our dining table — the one we used every holiday — was gone.
“Refreshing the space,” she said.
It stopped feeling like home after that.
The first time she saw the dress, she laughed.
I was trying it on in my room, standing in front of the mirror.
“You’re not serious,” she said. “You’re wearing that to prom?”
“It was my mom’s,” I told her.
She looked at it like it offended her.
“That thing is ancient. You’ll look like you pulled it out of a donation bin.”
“It’s not about how it looks.”
“It is,” she snapped. “You’re part of this family. You don’t get to embarrass us.”
“I’m wearing it.”
Her expression changed instantly.
“No. You’re wearing the dress I bought. The designer one.”
“I don’t want it.”
She stepped closer.
“I’m your mother now. You’ll do what I say.”
I felt something in my chest tighten.
“You’re not my mother.”
That didn’t go well.
That night, I sat on the floor with the dress in my arms, crying quietly so no one would hear.
But I already knew.
I was going to wear it.
No matter what.
The next day was prom.
I got ready slowly.
Did my makeup the way my mom used to.
Curled my hair. Found an old clip she used to wear.
For the first time in a long time… I felt close to her again.
Then I opened the garment bag.
And everything stopped.
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