Then I looked at Mom’s photograph on the screen.
I remembered her voice.
I didn’t make this dress so you could disappear.
I straightened my shoulders.
“No. Mom made this dress for prom. I’m staying.”
Gary smiled.
“Good. Because I still don’t know how to dance.”
“Neither do I.”
I took his hand.
And I stayed.
Later that night, Dad put Mom’s photograph back in the hallway.
He told Shirley not to return until he had spoken with an attorney.
Then he asked me quietly:
“Can we start over?”
I looked at Mom’s picture.
“No.”
His face fell.
“But we can start with the truth.”
Before going to bed, I touched the tiny blue K inside my dress.
Shirley had come to prom hoping to make me feel like a cheap copy.
Instead, hundreds of people saw exactly whose daughter I was.
