The night before prom, Eli finally knocked on our door again.
Behind him was a garment bag.
He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.
His hands were covered in tiny cuts.
But he was smiling.
“I finished.”
The next evening Hazel stood in front of the mirror wearing the dress.
And for a moment I forgot how to breathe.
It was stunning.
Ivory fabric flowed gracefully to the floor.
Delicate roses climbed across the skirt.
The bodice was elegant and perfectly tailored.
The gown looked like something from a fashion magazine.
Not because it hid Hazel.
Because it celebrated her.
For the first time in over a year, my daughter looked at herself without criticism.
Without shame.
Without tears.
She simply stared.
Then she smiled.
A real smile.
The kind I hadn’t seen since before Mason died.
When Eli arrived in a thrift-store tuxedo, Hazel nearly cried.
“You made this?” she whispered.
He shrugged awkwardly.
“It seemed easier than arguing with dress shops.”
Hazel laughed.
Actually laughed.
And suddenly she looked seventeen again.
Not broken.
