She rolled her eyes. “Now, I’m your mother! Enough with this obsession! I gave you a brand-new designer gown. One that actually belongs in this century.”
“I don’t want that dress,” I whispered.
She loomed over me. “You’re not a little girl anymore. It’s time to grow up and stop playing pretend. You’ll wear what I choose, smile for pictures, and stop acting like this house belongs to a dead woman.”
Her words hit like slaps.
Then she turned and walked out, her heels echoing down the hallway like gunshots.
I was still sitting on the floor, crying, when my door creaked open.
“Megan? Sweetheart? No one was answering the door, so I let myself in.”
It was my grandma—my mom’s mom. She had come early to see me before prom.
She rushed upstairs and stopped cold when she saw the dress.
“Oh no,” she whispered.
I tried to speak, but all I could do was sob.
“She destroyed it, Grandma. She actually destroyed it.”
Grandma knelt beside me, lifting the dress gently. She examined the damage, then looked at me with a fire I hadn’t seen in years.
“Get a sewing kit. And peroxide. We’re not letting that woman win.”
