I danced. I laughed. I let myself just be 17.
When I came home just before midnight, my dad was waiting in the hallway, still in his work uniform—tired, but smiling.
When he saw me, he froze.
“Megan… you look beautiful.” His voice broke. “You look just like your mom did that night.”
He pulled me into a hug, and I cried again—this time, happy tears.
“I’m proud of you, sweetheart,” he whispered. “So proud.”
Then I saw Stephanie at the end of the hallway.
Her eyes narrowed. “So this is it? You let her embarrass us in that cheap rag? James, everyone probably laughed behind her back. Do you realize how pathetic this makes our family look?”
Dad turned slowly, his arm tightening around me. His voice was calm—but unshakable.
“No, Stephanie. She looked radiant tonight. She honored her mother, and I’ve never been prouder of her.”
Stephanie scoffed.
“Oh, please. You two are so blinded by sentiment. This family will never get anywhere with that poor-man mentality. You think a five-dollar dress makes you special? You’re nothing but small people with even smaller dreams.”
