My stepmom RUINED the skirt I made from my late dad’s ties to honor him during my prom. ______ When my dad died, I was left with my stepmother, Carla — who didn’t shed a single tear. At the funeral, while I could barely stand, she leaned over and hissed, “You’re embarrassing yourself. Stop crying — he’s gone.” Two weeks later, she cleaned out dad’s closet, tossing his favorite collection of ties into a trash bag. “They’re not junk. They’re his,” I begged. She rolled her eyes. “HE’S NOT COMING BACK FOR THEM. GROW UP.” I saved them when she wasn’t looking. Each still smelled faintly like my dad’s cologne. Prom was coming up. I didn’t want to go, but I knew Dad would’ve wanted me to. So I decided to honor him and stitched those ties into a skirt. Each pattern held a memory — his job interview, my recital, Christmas mornings. When I tried it on, I whispered, “He’d love this.” The night before prom, I hung it on my closet door. The next morning, I smelled Carla’s perfume in my room. The skirt was on the floor — RIPPED APART, ties scattered like bones. I screamed. Carla appeared, sipping coffee. “That thing was HIDEOUS anyway. DO NOT PRETEND TO BE A PATHETIC ORPHAN!” “You destroyed the last thing I had of Dad’s!” She smirked. “He’s DEAD, not magic. Get over it.” But karma was faster then I thought, as police lights flashed outside. A knock. Carla froze. The officer came in and looked at me. “You live here?” “Yes… why?” He turned to Carla. “We’re here for Mrs. Miller.

Three months after my mom’s funeral, my dad married her sister.I told myself grief makes people do strange things. I repeated it like a mantra, like something learned in therapy or overheard at a support group. I clung to it because the alternative felt unbearable.

I didn’t think anything could hurt more than watching my mom die.

I was wrong.

She fought breast cancer for almost three years. By the end, she barely had the strength to sit up, but she still worried about everyone else. She asked if I’d eaten, if my brother Robert was keeping up with his bills, if Dad remembered his blood pressure medication.

Even while dying, she was parenting.

After we buried her, the house smelled like antiseptic and her lavender lotion. Her coat still hung by the door. Her slippers were half-hidden under the couch. People kept repeating the same hollow comforts.