The implication stung. Mark’s money. His generosity. And his ability to provide what I couldn’t. “Well,” I interrupted, “that’s very thoughtful.”
“Oh, and Lily,” Cassandra added, turning back to my daughter, “I’ve already posted on social media about how excited I am to see you in your dream dress on prom night. I tagged all my friends… they’re dying to see the photos.”
After Cassandra left, Lily and I stood in the living room, speechless.
“Mom,” Lily started, but I held up my hand. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” I said, though it wasn’t. “It’s your choice. Wear whatever makes you happy.”
Lily looked between the store-bought dress and the stairs leading to her room, where my handmade creation waited. “I need to think,” she said, and disappeared upstairs.
That following evening, I helped Lily get ready without asking which dress she’d chosen. I did her hair in soft curls, helped with her makeup, and tried to keep my hands from shaking as I fastened her necklace.
“Mom,” she said, turning to face me. “I want you to know that I love you. I love what you made for me. I love that you stayed up every night working on it. I love that you cared enough to try.”
My heart ached. “I love you too, sweetheart.”
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