Jewelry.
Hair appointments.
Nail colors.
Flowers.
Every evening she stood in front of the mirror imagining how the night would unfold.
Sometimes she’d stop and look at me.
“Do you think Dad would’ve liked this dress?”
The question always hurt.
“I think,” I answered carefully, “he would’ve been amazed by the incredible young woman you’ve become.”
She nodded, though I could tell she still wondered about the father she’d never known.
Over the years, I had answered her questions as gently as I could.
I told her he had left before she was born.
That he hadn’t wanted responsibility.
That sometimes adults made painful choices.
It wasn’t the complete story.
But it was the only version I’d ever allowed myself to tell.
Prom night finally arrived.
Ryan showed up exactly at six.
He stood on our porch holding a bouquet of white roses.
He wore a perfectly tailored tuxedo.
His manners were impeccable.
I turned eighteen on a Tuesday. No cake. No card. Not even a half-hearted “happy birthday.” Just my father sitting at the kitchen table, his wife stirring sugar into her mug, and my stepbrother leaning back in his chair with that look people get when they already know how the story ends.
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