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.

Later, he called me.

“This isn’t right,” he said. “None of it.”

“It’s grief,” I replied automatically. “People do strange things.”

I don’t know who I was trying to convince.

Everything moved quickly after that. Quiet paperwork. Muted conversations. Laura tried to include me. Flowers. Venues. I declined every time.

Dad asked once if I was okay with it.

“If you’re happy,” I said, “that’s what matters.”

His relief felt like forgiveness he hadn’t earned.

The wedding invitation arrived six weeks later. Small ceremony. Close family only. Mom’s name wasn’t mentioned anywhere.

Still, I went. I told myself I was being mature. Loving. The daughter who didn’t make things harder.

Standing there, surrounded by champagne and soft music, I repeated the lie in my head.

This is just grief.

Then Robert arrived late.

His jacket was half-on. His eyes were wild. He grabbed my arm.

“Claire. We need to talk. Now.”

Before I could ask why, he said the words that cracked everything open.

“You don’t know who Dad really is.”

He didn’t stop walking until we were near the coat racks, half-hidden by plants. Laughter spilled from the reception behind us.