My stepmother walked into my prom in a dress almost identical to the one my late mother had sewn for me.
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For a horrible second, people thought we had planned to match.
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Shirley smiled like she’d won something.
My father looked at the ground.
I turned to the exit, fighting tears, but my companion, Gary, took my arm.
Don’t go away, Delilah.
Those words stopped me.
Because my mother had said the same thing while making the dress.
A year earlier, Mom was sitting on the bed with powdered pink fabric spread over her lap. She was already very ill, and some days her hands were so shaking that she could barely hold a spoon.
Still, she insisted on sewing herself the little fabric flowers around the neckline.
“Mom, let me finish it,” I pleaded.
“No. The flowers are mine.
I knew I probably wouldn’t live long enough to see me wear the dress at graduation.
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I knew that too.
When it was almost finished, it touched my face.
“When you use this, promise me you won’t spend the night hidden in a corner.
“I don’t even dance.
“Then learn.
I tried to laugh.
Mom smiled.
I didn’t do this to make you disappear. Promise me.
I promised him.
Eight days later, he died.
After the funeral, our house became painfully silent.
Dad barely spoke.
Mom’s favorite blue cup stayed on a kitchen shelf, and she played it every morning because, somehow, knowing that she was still there made the house feel less empty.
Then Dad married Shirley.
Shirley had been Mom’s best friend.
People acted like that should make things easier.
It wasn’t.
Within a few days, Mom’s blue cup disappeared.
“I was shacked,” Shirley said.
“I wasn’t.
Daddy sighed.
It was just a cup, Delilah.
It was Mom’s cup.
Then Mom’s photograph disappeared from the hallway.
Another photo was turned to the wall.
Every time I complained, Shirley smiled and called me too sensitive.
One afternoon she said, “You look exactly like your mother when you’re angry. That must be hard for your father.
Little by little, I began to realize that I was not just taking away Mom’s belongings.