Stephanie stepped closer until she was just inches away. I could smell her perfume—sweet, expensive, suffocating.
“Listen,” she said softly, like a warning. “This obsession with your mother’s things has gone on long enough. You’re seventeen. It’s time to grow up.”
My throat burned. “Keeping her dress isn’t an obsession.”
Stephanie tilted her head. “You know what I think? I think you want to make some kind of statement. Poor little grieving daughter. It’s manipulative.”
Dad’s voice went cold. “That’s enough.”
Stephanie turned toward him with a scoff. “I’m trying to help. I’m trying to stop her from embarrassing herself.”
“I’m not embarrassed,” I said, the words trembling but true. “I’m proud.”
For illustrative purposes only
For a moment, Stephanie looked genuinely angry—like my pride was a personal insult. Then she stepped back, lifted her shoulders in a dramatic sigh, and said, “Fine. Wear your little costume. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
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