“Mason wanted a lot of things.”
“He wanted you in a dress, dancing and laughing,” I said. “He told me that.”
“Mom.”
“Just try on one. One dress. If you hate it, we leave and never mention it again. Deal?”
She looked at me through that slim crack in the door, and I saw something stir behind her eyes that I had not seen in months. Not hope exactly. Maybe curiosity. A tiny permission.
“One dress,” she said.
The next Saturday, I drove to the strip mall with both hands tight around the wheel and a dangerous knot in my chest. Hope. After a year of emptiness, I had dared to feel it again.
I should have known better.
The first three boutiques used gentler language. “Limited inventory.” “Sample sizes only.” “We could special order, but not in time.” But the meaning was obvious: they thought she was too big for their dresses.
By the fourth shop, I watched Hazel shrink into herself, shoulders creeping toward her ears just as they had at Mason’s funeral.
I forced my voice to stay bright.
“There’s one more place. The pretty one on Maple.”
“Mom.”
“Just one more, sweetheart.”
The old nickname nearly slipped out, but I caught it before it could hurt her. That word belonged to Mason. Only Mason.
The Maple boutique had a gown in the window I had already imagined on her. Ivory, soft, romantic. Hazel stood before the glass for a long moment before asking, in a voice I had not heard in a year, “Could I try the one in the window?”
The saleswoman looked her slowly up and down, her mouth tightening.
“That’s not going to work for you, honey. You’re too big.”
That was it. No kindness. No apology.
Hazel did not cry. She did not protest. She simply turned, walked out the door, and got into the passenger seat of my car. I followed, my hands trembling around the keys.
“Hazel, I am so sorry. I am going to go back in there and—”
“Please drive.”
“Sweetheart—”
“Please. Just drive.”
She stared forward the entire way home. I kept looking over, waiting for her to break, to cry, to do anything at all. Nothing came. That frightened me more than sobbing would have.
She entered the house, climbed the stairs, and shut her bedroom door. I heard the lock click.
I went after her. I sat on the carpet outside her room with my back against the door.
“Hazel. Open the door. Please.”
“I’m not going to prom, Mom.”
“Honey, we can find something. We can sew something ourselves, we can—”
“Mom. Stop.” Her voice was empty and tired. “I’m not going. Please just stop trying.”
I pressed my forehead to the door and cried as quietly as I could. I had already buried one child. I could feel the second slipping away through the space beneath that door, and I did not know how to keep hold of her.
I do not know how long I stayed there. Long enough for my legs to go numb. Long enough for the hallway light to change.
A few days later, someone knocked.
I opened the door in yesterday’s clothes. Eli stood on the porch in a faded hoodie, holding a small notebook to his chest. He looked nervous. He also looked certain, which was new for him.
“Mrs. Mave. Can I talk to you out here?”
I stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind me.
“Is Hazel okay? Did she text you?”
“No, ma’am.” He inhaled. “I need her measurements.”
“Eli, what—”
“Prom is in two weeks. I can do this. I know how that sounds. But I need you to trust me. And I need you not to tell her anything. Not one word.”
I stared at the boy I had watched grow up just two houses away. Seventeen years old. Chewed fingernails. Holding that notebook like it was a signed agreement.
