By the time prom season arrived for the rest of her class, my mother was working double shifts at a local diner. While her peers were picking out tuxedos, she was standing on swollen feet and nursing an aching back, tucked away in a corner of the kitchen saving tips in a coffee can labeled DIAPERS. Her own glittery dress remained untouched on a hanger in the back of her closet, until one day, she quietly donated it.
She traded sequins for sleepless nights, vibrant dance floors for sterile hospital hallways, and senior homework for bottles and burp cloths. As I slept against her chest, she studied for her GED. Through all of it, she never complained. Not a single time.
So, when my own prom arrived this year, I felt a lingering sense of something unfinished. While everyone else was buzzing about limos and after-parties, my mind kept drifting back to her—to the life she had forfeited the moment she chose me.
One evening, as she was folding laundry, I finally voiced it. “Mom… you missed your prom because of me.“
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