Months earlier, I had found Hazel’s old journals.
They were hidden behind books, as if she had been trying to bury them but couldn’t fully let go.
Inside were names.
Girls. Boys.
Cruel sentences written in quiet handwriting.
Things no child should ever have to carry alone.
I put the journal back exactly where I found it.
And pretended I hadn’t seen it.
But I had.
When prom season began, the world moved on around us.
Other girls posted dresses online. Mothers shared photos of shopping trips and laughter.
At home, I tried gently.
“Sweetheart… prom is in three weeks.”
“I’m not going, Mom.”
“Mason wanted you to go.”
Silence followed.
Then the door opened slightly.
“Mason wanted a lot of things.”
“He wanted you to laugh,” I said softly. “To dance.”
“Mom…”
“Just try one dress. One. If you hate it, we leave.”
That was when she finally agreed.
“One dress.”
For illustrative purposes only
The Day Everything Went Wrong
The first boutiques were polite.
Careful.
Too careful.
“Limited sizes.”
“We don’t carry that range.”
“We could special order… but not in time.”
Each answer said the same thing in different words.
You don’t fit here.
By the fourth store, Hazel had gone quiet.
Smaller.
Like she was folding in on herself.
I tried to stay hopeful.
“There’s one more place.”
“The boutique on Maple.”
“Mom.”
“Just one more.”
