We spent Saturdays shopping for dresses.
She tried on dozens.
Blue.
Red.
Gold.
Emerald.
Finally, she stepped out wearing a soft midnight-blue gown that shimmered under the fitting room lights.
The moment I saw her, tears filled my eyes.
“Mom?”
“You look beautiful.”
She smiled nervously.
“You really think so?”
“I’ve never been more certain of anything.”
She bought the dress.
Then came shoes.
Jewelry.
Hair appointments.
Nail colors.
Flowers.
Every evening she stood in front of the mirror imagining how the night would unfold.
Sometimes she’d stop and look at me.
“Do you think Dad would’ve liked this dress?”
The question always hurt.
“I think,” I answered carefully, “he would’ve been amazed by the incredible young woman you’ve become.”
She nodded, though I could tell she still wondered about the father she’d never known.