I’d buried my face in it the night we learned he wasn’t coming home, breathing in traces of his aftershave, salt, and something like machine oil.
Now, every snip of my scissors and tug of thread felt like stitching myself back together.
I knew they’d never let me hear the end of it.
***
I didn’t grow up dreaming of prom. Not like my stepsisters, Lia and Jen did, anyway.
One Saturday morning, I walked into the kitchen and found Lia hunched over a pile of magazines, markers scattered everywhere.
“Chelsea, which one do you like better? Strapless or a sweetheart neckline?” she asked, waving a page in my direction.
Before I could answer, Jen popped a grape into her mouth. “Why bother asking her? She’ll probably go in one of her dad’s flannel shirts or one of her mother’s ancient dresses.”
I didn’t grow up dreaming of prom.
I shrugged, trying to sound casual. “I’m not sure, Lia. I think they’ll both look great on you. I haven’t thought about prom yet.”
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