I was eighteen when I realized that love isn’t just saying thank you—it’s standing up for someone who’s spent a lifetime standing up for you.
My senior prom was coming, and while everyone else obsessed over dates and dresses, I couldn’t stop thinking about my mom, Emma. She had me at seventeen. Before I was born, she was just a high school kid with big dreams—prom, graduation, college. All of that vanished the moment she got pregnant.
The boy who got her pregnant? Gone. No support, no goodbye. My mom traded her freedom for night shifts, secondhand baby clothes, and sleepless nights.
I grew up watching her fight alone—grinding through graveyard shifts, cleaning houses, babysitting, studying for her GED while I slept. She laughed off her “almost prom,” but I saw the flicker of sadness in her eyes she never let anyone touch.
As my prom approached, I had an idea.
I told her one night, while she scrubbed dishes: “You never got to go to prom. I want to take you to mine.”
She laughed, then broke down. Tears streamed. “You’re serious?” she asked. “You wouldn’t be embarrassed?”
I shook my head. I’d never been prouder.
Stepdad Mike was thrilled. He jumped in with tie lessons, corsages, and proud smiles. Stepsister Brianna? Not so much.
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