In my small town, everyone knows everything. I’m seventeen, working at CVS, saving every tip in a red Folgers can under my bed—my “prom dress fund.” It wasn’t just money; it was sparkle, a promise to myself and to my mom, who died when I was twelve. When Dad remarried, Linda and her daughter Hailey moved in. Linda loved control; Hailey loved attention. By spring, prom talk filled every hallway.
I had $312 saved and a list of everything I needed. Then one afternoon, I came home to find Hailey twirling in a glittering lilac gown. Linda smiled and said, “You can borrow one of my cocktail dresses. Practical, right?” My heart sank. The can was gone. Linda calmly said she’d “borrowed it” for bills—but her purse held a boutique receipt for $489.
My savings had bought Hailey’s dress. Dad promised to “talk,” which meant nothing. I skipped prom. The next morning, a red SUV pulled into our driveway—my Aunt Carla. “We’ve got places to be,” she said. Three stops later, I had a soft blue chiffon gown, a latte like Mom used to drink, and the courage to come home.
Carla confronted Linda, who crumbled. Dad told her to return the money—or leave. She left. Hailey stayed. That night, I went to prom after all—with Alex from next door and a bracelet of tiny stars. For the first time in years, I didn’t just look for sparkle. I carried it.