She didn’t like anything in the house that existed before her.
The photos disappeared first.
Then decorations. Then furniture.
“Old,” she called it.
“Tacky.”
One day I came home and our dining table — the one we used every holiday — was gone.
“Refreshing the space,” she said.
It stopped feeling like home after that.
The first time she saw the dress, she laughed.
I was trying it on in my room, standing in front of the mirror.
“You’re not serious,” she said. “You’re wearing that to prom?”
“It was my mom’s,” I told her.
She looked at it like it offended her.
“That thing is ancient. You’ll look like you pulled it out of a donation bin.”
“It’s not about how it looks.”
“It is,” she snapped. “You’re part of this family. You don’t get to embarrass us.”
“I’m wearing it.”
Her expression changed instantly.
“No. You’re wearing the dress I bought. The designer one.”
“I don’t want it.”
She stepped closer.
“I’m your mother now. You’ll do what I say.”
I felt something in my chest tighten.
“You’re not my mother.”
That didn’t go well.
That night, I sat on the floor with the dress in my arms, crying quietly so no one would hear.
But I already knew.
I was going to wear it.
No matter what.
The next day was prom.
I got ready slowly.
Did my makeup the way my mom used to.
Curled my hair. Found an old clip she used to wear.
For the first time in a long time… I felt close to her again.
Then I opened the garment bag.
And everything stopped.
The dress was destroyed.
The seam ripped open.
Stains soaked into the satin.
Ink smeared across the bodice.
My hands started shaking.
“No… no, no…”
Then I heard her voice.
“Oh. You found it.”
Stephanie stood in the doorway.
Calm. Almost amused.
“You did this?” I whispered.
She didn’t even deny it.
“I warned you,” she said. “I wasn’t going to let you humiliate us.”
“It was my mom’s.”
“And now I’m your mother,” she snapped. “It’s time to grow up.”
Something inside me broke.
I don’t know how long I sat there crying.
But then my grandma walked in.
She had come early.
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