The night before prom, I finally put it on.
It wasn’t fancy.
It wasn’t designer.
But it was stitched from every color my dad had ever worn.
My aunt stood in the doorway and wiped her eyes.
“Emma… your father would’ve loved this,” she said quietly.
For the first time since he died, I didn’t feel empty.
I felt like he was still with me.
Prom night arrived.
The gymnasium was glowing with lights and music when I walked in. I had barely taken ten steps before the whispering began.
A girl near the entrance said loudly, “Is that dress made out of the janitor’s old clothes?”
A boy laughed beside her. “Guess that’s what you wear when you can’t afford a real one.”
Laughter spread through the crowd.
My face burned.
“I made this from my dad’s shirts,” I said, my voice shaking. “He passed away a few months ago, and this is how I wanted to honor him.”
For a second, the room went quiet.
Then another girl shrugged. “Relax. No one asked for a sad story.”
I suddenly felt like I was eleven again, hearing those same old insults in the hallway.
I found a chair near the edge of the room and sat down, trying to breathe slowly. I refused to cry in front of them.
Then someone shouted across the room that my dress was “gross.”
