Prom night was meant to be a promise kept. Since childhood, I’d dreamed of wearing my mom’s lavender satin prom dress—the embroidered flowers, the delicate straps, the way it shimmered in her old photos. After cancer took her when I was twelve, the dress became more than fabric. It was memory. Comfort. The last piece of her I could still…
Prom night was meant to be a promise kept. Since childhood, I’d dreamed of wearing my mom’s lavender satin prom dress—the embroidered flowers, the delicate straps, the way it shimmered in her old photos. After cancer took her when I was twelve, the dress became more than fabric. It was memory. Comfort. The last piece of her I could still touch. When my dad remarried, our home changed fast. Family photos disappeared. Traditions were called “clutter.” I tried to stay patient—until the dress.
