Grief sat at our kitchen table and learned to sew. My father, who once fixed leaking pipes, now wrestled with my dead mother’s wedding dress, turning memories into something I was supposed to wear in public. I walked into prom already trembling, but I didn’t expect the first laugh to come from my own teacher. Her voice sliced through the music, mocking the crooked hem, the faded lace, the way the bodice didn’t quite fit my shoulders. Every insecurity I’d ever tried to hide bloomed under the fluorescent lights as the room turned to stare, and for a second I wished the floor would just crum… Continues…
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