The door shut behind her.
I stared at the ruined dress and felt like my lungs couldn’t expand. The world tilted. My hands shook so hard I had to sit on the edge of my bed to keep from falling.
I took out my phone with numb fingers and texted Dad: Can you come upstairs? Please. Now.
It took him less than a minute.
When he walked in, he was smiling—probably expecting a photo, a proud dad moment. Then he saw my face. Then he saw the dress.
The smile vanished.
He didn’t speak at first. He walked over slowly, like he was approaching an accident scene, and lifted the garment bag with careful hands. His eyes moved over the stains, the ripped seam, the torn zipper.
When he finally looked at me, something had changed in his expression. There was grief there, yes—fresh and sharp. But there was also something colder.
“Who did this?” he asked quietly.
My voice came out thin. “Stephanie.”
His jaw clenched. “Did you see her do it?”
“She basically admitted it,” I whispered. “She said accidents happen. Then she told me… she told me Mom’s dress should’ve been thrown away.”
Dad’s eyes went glossy, but his voice stayed steady. “I’m sorry,” he said, and I could tell he meant it in a way that went beyond the dress. “I’m so sorry.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to go anymore,” I said, the words tumbling out. “I don’t want to pretend everything’s fine while she— while she—”
Dad set the garment bag down gently on the bed like it was a person he didn’t want to hurt.
“Look at me,” he said.
I met his eyes.
“You are going,” he said, firm. “If you want to.”
“I don’t have a dress,” I whispered.
He held up a hand. “We’ll handle that.” Then his voice softened. “But Stephanie? I’m handling that too.”
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