Emma saw this and protested, saying I already worked too much for her sake, but I wasn’t too tired to make her happy. I poured love into every seam, working for days until my fingers cramped and my eyes watered. The night before prom, Emma tried on the finished dress in our narrow hallway, turning slowly in front of the mirror.
The fabric caught the light just right, shimmering gently, and tears filled her eyes. ‘It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen,’ she whispered. ‘Thank—’
But at that exact moment, a sharp knock rattled our front door. I opened it and froze. Melissa stood on our porch, smiling brightly. I could see the passage of time in her face. She was 43 now, but she still looked great. In fact, better than ever.
‘My baby girl!’ she exclaimed, pulling Emma into a dramatic hug. Emma stood stiff in her arms, confused. I watched from the doorway, just as puzzled. She couldn’t be this dense. She hadn’t attempted to contact us even once since she’d abandoned her daughter.
But she kept up the enthusiasm, and with a theatrical flourish, she presented the garment bag to Emma. ‘Here you go!’ she said. But when Emma simply stared, she unzipped it and pulled a glittering silver gown out. It probably cost more than what I made in three months.
‘I brought you a special gift,’ she purred, holding up the dress. Her eyes flicked over my granddaughter and her homemade gown. ‘I think I came just in time. Prom’s tomorrow, right? I heard some girls at the boutique talking about it.’
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