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 looked me up and down and said loudly, “Well, if the theme was cleaning out an attic, you nailed it.”

The room went quiet.

She kept going, mocking my dress, my chances, even reaching out to touch the fabric like it was something to criticize.

My whole body froze.

Then a voice came from behind her.
“Mrs. Tilmot?”