My Stepmother Bought Me The Worst Dress She Could Find For Prom—But By The End Of The Night, She Was Crying And Begging Me To Take It Off

night arrived too fast.

I stood in the mirror in that mustard-gold dress and barely recognized myself.

Not because of the fabric.

But because of what it represented.

Being chosen last.

Or not chosen at all.

The car ride was quiet.

Too quiet.

Alexis was humming.

A soft, satisfied sound.

Like something she had been planning for a long time was finally happening.continue reading …