I felt like Dad was still with me—woven into the fabric the same way he’d always been woven into every ordinary moment of my life.
Prom night finally arrived.
The venue glowed with dim lights and loud music. Everyone buzzed with the energy of a night they’d been planning for months.
The whispering started before I’d even walked ten steps inside.
A girl near the entrance said loudly, “Is that dress made from our janitor’s rags?!”
A boy beside her laughed. “Is that what you wear when you can’t afford a real dress?”
The laughter spread. Students shifted away from me, creating that small, cruel gap crowds make around someone they’ve decided to mock.
My face burned.
“I made this dress from my dad’s shirts,” I said. “He passed away a few months ago. This was my way of honoring him. So maybe it’s not your place to mock something you don’t understand.”
For a moment, the room went quiet.
Then another girl rolled her eyes. “Relax. Nobody asked for the sob story.”
I was eighteen, but in that moment I felt eleven again—standing in the hallway hearing, She’s the janitor’s daughter.
I wanted to disappear.
