Labels. Worth. The moment Margaret mocked me. The moment she changed. The way Lily had learned to stand tall.
I swallowed. “Yes,” I said softly. “You can.”
We opened the dress box together that night. The silk still gleamed faintly in lamplight. The label still stitched neatly inside, the name that once froze Margaret in place.
Lily traced the seam gently. “It’s so light,” she whispered.
“It carried a lot,” I said quietly.
Lily looked up. “Did it hurt?” she asked.
I knew what she meant. Not the needle. The memory.
“Yes,” I admitted. “But it also helped.”
We cut a small piece from the inside lining—nothing visible from the outside, nothing that changed the dress’s beauty. Just a sliver of silk that held history.
Lily stitched it into her prom dress lining with hands that were steadier than she realized.
When prom night arrived, Lily stood in front of the mirror, hair pinned up, makeup minimal, dress fitting her like it had been waiting for her body and no one else’s.
She turned once, then looked at me. “Do I look okay?”
I smiled. “You look like yourself,” I said.
Lily’s shoulders loosened, relief flooding her face. “Good.”