I was never the loud one. I was the kid teachers whispered about during conferences—“bright future,” they’d say, like it was a secret they didn’t want to jinx. But that promise didn’t stretch far in our house, where Mom counted groceries in crumpled singles and Grandma clipped coupons like it was a sport.
Dad had vanished when I was seven—no dramatic exits, just a bag in hand and silence in his place. Since then, it had been the three of us, pressed into a house full of secondhand furniture and faded family photos. Still, love filled the gaps money left behind. Somehow, we always managed.
So when prom came around, I didn’t bother asking for a dress. I knew Mom’s face too well—that ache in her eyes when she wanted to say yes but had to say no.
