Here is the continuation and conclusion of the story:
I didn’t dignify Brianna with a response. Instead, I looked at Mike. He gave me a subtle wink and mouthed, “Don’t worry about the money.”
The next week was a covert mission. Mom kept trying to pull old, modest outfits from the back of her closet—things she wore to parent-teacher conferences or church—terrified of spending a dime on herself. She kept saying, “Honey, I don’t want to stand out. I’ll just blend in.”
” absolutely not,” I told her. “We are not blending in.”
With Mike’s help, I took her to a high-end boutique downtown. When the saleslady brought out a floor-length, midnight-blue silk gown that shimmered like the night sky, Mom looked at the price tag and nearly fainted. She tried to put it back, her hands shaking, whispering that it was too much, that the money should go toward my college fund. I physically blocked her from the rack. “Mom, try it on. Please. Just for me.”
When she stepped out of the dressing room, the air left the room. The tired lines around her eyes seemed to vanish, replaced by a glow that had been buried under years of double shifts and sacrifice. She didn’t look like a struggling single mom; she looked like royalty. She stared at herself in the mirror and touched her cheek, whispering, “Is that really me?”
Prom night arrived. Brianna was downstairs making a scene about her corsage being the wrong shade of pink, surrounded by her friends who were already rolling their eyes at her drama.
Then, Mom walked down the stairs.
The room went dead silent. Even Brianna stopped mid-complaint, her mouth actually hanging open. My mom had her hair pinned up in soft waves, wearing the blue gown, with a simple silver necklace Mike had surprised her with an hour earlier. She looked timeless. Elegant. Breathtaking.
“Ready?” I asked, holding out my arm.
“I’m so nervous,” she squeezed my hand. “Are you sure about this?”
“Never been more sure.”
We didn’t take a limo; we drove my beat-up sedan, blasting 90s music and laughing the whole way. When we walked into the gymnasium, I felt the stares immediately. I saw the nudges. I saw Brianna’s clique in the corner, whispering. For a second, I felt Mom stiffen beside me, her head starting to lower.
I leaned in. “Chin up. You worked harder than anyone in this room to be here. Own it.”
She took a deep breath, straightened her spine, and smiled. And suddenly, the whispers didn’t matter. We hit the dance floor. We didn’t dance like the other kids, grinding or acting too cool to move. We danced like fools. We spun until we were dizzy. We laughed until our sides hurt.
Halfway through the night, the DJ slowed it down. As we swayed to the music, I looked over Mom’s shoulder and saw Brianna. She was sitting alone at a table, looking miserable and scrolling through her phone because her date had ditched her to hang out with his friends. She had the “perfect” prom experience on paper, but she looked empty.
Then I looked at my mom. She was crying happy tears, beaming at me with a look of pure, unadulterated love.
“You know,” she said over the music, “I always regretted missing my prom. I thought I lost a core memory.” She pulled back to look me in the eye. “But this? This is a million times better than any high school dance I could have had at seventeen.”
“I love you, Mom,” I said.
“I love you too, kiddo.”
We stayed until the lights came on. People can call it pathetic if they want. They can laugh. But while they were worried about impresssing people they won’t remember in five years, I was making a memory with the woman who gave up her life so I could have mine. And honestly? It was the best date I could have ever asked for.
