Prom was supposed to be glitter and slow songs, but for me it was always lavender—my mom’s lavender satin dress, with tiny embroidered flowers and straps that caught the light. When I was little, I promised I’d wear it to prom. She promised to keep it safe. Cancer broke that promise before I turned twelve, leaving the dress as the one piece of her I could still hold.

Then Dad remarried. Stephanie arrived with cold marble tables and sharper opinions. When she saw me in the dress before prom, she sneered. “You’ll look like you pulled it from a thrift bin. I bought you a designer gown—you’ll wear that.” I clutched the satin. “It’s all I have left of her.” She smiled without warmth. “Stop acting like this house belongs to a dead woman.”

I decided anyway: I would wear it. Dad, exhausted but soft-eyed, told me, “I want to see you in your mom’s dress.”

But prom day, the dress slid from the garment bag ruined—ripped, stained, smeared. Stephanie appeared in the doorway, victorious. “Now you’ll wear the gown that belongs in this century.”

Grandma arrived just then. One look, and she ordered, “Get the sewing kit.” For hours she scrubbed and stitched, hands steady with love. It wasn’t perfect, but when I tried it on, lavender bloomed again in the mirror. “Go shine for both of you,” she whispered.

At prom, friends gasped. “It was my mom’s,” I said, and each word stitched something back together.

When I returned, Dad saw me and stopped breathing. “You look just like your mom.” Stephanie raged, but Dad’s voice was firm: “She honored her mother tonight. I’ll always choose her.” Stephanie slammed the door behind her.

The next morning, with Grandma’s muffins and Dad’s tired smile, peace finally pulled up a chair. And in my closet, the mended seam waited—stronger, ours, proof that love doesn’t tear. It learns to hold.