Over the next few weeks, she escalated. Snide comments in hallways. “What’s she even going to wear?” she sneered. “Something from the thrift store? That’s going to be so embarrassing.”
The week before prom, she went further. “Prom is for teenagers, not middle-aged women trying to relive their youth. It’s honestly sad.”
Because by then, I already had a plan.
On prom night, my mom looked incredible. Not flashy. Not out of place. Just elegant. Her hair fell in soft vintage waves. She wore a powder-blue dress that made her eyes glow. When she looked in the mirror, she cried. So did I.
She was nervous the entire drive. “What if people stare?” “What if your friends think this is weird?” “What if I ruin your night?”
I held her hand and said, “You built my entire life from nothing. You can’t ruin anything.”
At the school courtyard, people did stare—but not the way she feared. Other parents complimented her. My friends hugged her. Teachers told her how beautiful and touching the gesture was. I watched her shoulders relax, watched her realize she belonged there.
Then Brianna arrived.
She wore a glittering dress that screamed attention and positioned herself near the photographer. Loudly, she said, “Wait—why is she here? Is this prom or family visiting hours?”
The laughter from her group hit like a slap.
Brianna pressed harder. “This is uncomfortable. You’re way too old for this, Emma. No offense, but this is for actual students.”
Something inside me went cold and clear.
I smiled. “Interesting opinion. Thanks for sharing.”
She thought she’d won. Continue reading…
