My Stepmom Destroyed the Skirt I Made from My Late Dad’s Ties—Karma Knocked on Our Door That Same Night

“You actually fixed that thing? You’re seriously still wearing it?” she asked, her voice dripping with disgust.

“Yes,” I said, holding my head high.

“Well,” she sneered, standing up to get a better look, “don’t expect me to take any pictures of you looking like a circus tent.

I’m not posting that embarrassment on my social media.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” I replied simply.

Mallory’s parents honked from the curb outside, and I grabbed my small purse and walked out without looking back. I didn’t need Carla’s approval. I had something much more important.

Prom was everything I didn’t know I needed.

When I walked into the decorated gym, heads turned immediately because the skirt told a story that you could see just by looking at it.

People came up to me throughout the night, asking about it. Each time, I said the same thing with pride in my voice, “It’s made from my late dad’s ties. He passed away this spring.”

Teachers got teary-eyed when they heard my story.

My friends hugged me so tight I could barely breathe. Someone I barely knew whispered as I walked past, “That’s the sweetest, most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”

I danced until my feet hurt, laughed until my face ached, and cried a few happy tears. For the first time since Dad died, I felt genuinely light, like a weight had lifted from my chest.

At the end of the night, our principal, Mrs.

Henderson, handed out special ribbons for different categories. She called me up to the stage for “Most Unique Attire.” As she pinned the ribbon to my skirt, she leaned close and said softly so only I could hear, “Your father would be so incredibly proud of you, Emma.”

But the story doesn’t end here.

When Mallory’s mom dropped me off at home around 11:30 p.m., the house was lit up like a crime scene.

Police lights flashed red and blue against our windows and the neighbor’s trees. I froze on the sidewalk, my stomach dropping.

A uniformed officer stood at our front door.

Carla was in the doorway, pale and shaking like I’d never seen her before.

“What’s going on?” I whispered, walking slowly toward the house.

The officer turned to me, his expression serious. “You live here, miss?”

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