“Every time,” he said.
She glared at me. “Ungrateful brat.”
From the living room, Grandma’s voice rang out. “I’d watch your words, Stephanie. You’re lucky I didn’t tell James worse.”
Stephanie went pale.
She grabbed her purse and stormed out, slamming the door.
“Fine. Stay in your little bubble of grief and mediocrity. I won’t be part of it.”
Dad turned back to me, brushing a curl from my face.
“She’s gone,” he said gently. “But your mom would be so proud of you.”
“I know,” I whispered.
And for the first time in a long time, I truly believed it.
Grandma had stayed after fixing my dress to tell Dad everything. She left that night, then returned the next morning with muffins.
The three of us sat in the kitchen—me, her, and Dad—for the first peaceful breakfast we’d had in years.
That night, I hung the lavender dress back in my closet.
It was proof that love had survived.
Just like me.
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustration purposes only.
