I wore a prom dress my father created from my late mother’s wedding gown, and for one perfect moment, it felt like she was there with me.

She had a way of making me feel small—criticizing my work, my attitude, even the way I looked—without ever raising her voice.

I told myself to ignore it. I pretended it didn’t matter.

But my dad saw through that.

One night, while I was reworking an assignment again, he told me, “Don’t exhaust yourself for someone who enjoys tearing you down.”

A week before prom, he knocked on my door holding a garment bag.