And that’s when my dad stepped forward.
“That dress belonged to my wife,” he said. “And you had no right to touch it.”
She hesitated.
“You destroyed something that mattered to my daughter,” he continued.
“And I won’t let you hurt her again.”
“You’re choosing her over me?”
“Yes,” he said. “Every time.”
Silence.
Then she grabbed her bag and left.
Slamming the door behind her.
The house felt different after that.
Quieter.
But not empty.
That night, I hung the dress back in my closet.
Carefully.
Like something that survived.
Because it did.
