I wore the prom dress my late mom had sewn before she died, hoping I could still feel her. Then my stepmom arrived in a copy made to mock me. I almost ran, until my date saw what she’d done and made sure the whole room saw it too.
My stepmom walked into prom wearing the exact dress my dying mother had sewn for me, and for one awful second, everyone thought we’d planned it.
Shirley smiled like she’d won some competition.
My dad looked at the floor.
My stepmom walked into prom.
I turned toward the exit with tears on my face, but my date, Gary, touched my elbow and whispered, “Don’t disappear, Delilah.”
My mother had said those same words while stitching the dress with shaking hands.
***
A year earlier, Mom sat up in bed with dusty pink fabric across her lap, pretending the needle wasn’t shaking in her hand.
Some days, she could barely hold a spoon, but she still insisted on sewing the rosettes along the neckline herself.
I turned toward the exit with tears on my face.
“Mom, let me finish it.”
“No. The rosettes are mine.”
“Mom, you need to rest. Please.”
“I am resting, Delilah. That’s all I do. Let me have this, hon.”
The dress was strapless, fitted through the bodice, and soft through the skirt, made for my prom the following year.
“Let me have this, hon.”
We both knew she might not see it.
“When you wear this,” Mom said, “promise me you won’t stand in a corner.”
“Mom, I don’t even dance.”
“Then learn.”
My laugh broke in the middle.
She touched my cheek. “I didn’t sew this for you to disappear. Promise me you won’t disappear.”
Eight days later, she was gone.
We both knew she might not see it.
***
After the funeral, our house felt too quiet to live in. Dad barely spoke. Mom’s blue mug stayed on the second shelf, and I touched the handle every time I passed.
Then Dad married Shirley.
Shirley had been Mom’s best friend, which people said like it made the whole thing kinder.
It didn’t.
