“You don’t have to make yourself smaller for other people,” she’d tell me.
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
She would look at me.
Then she’d say quietly,
“You deserve more than surviving.”
I never knew what to say to that.
Then senior year arrived.
And with it came prom.
My friends talked about it for weeks.
Dresses.
Hair.
Shoes.
Pictures.
Dates.
I listened.
I smiled.
I pretended I was interested.
But I knew I wasn’t going.
One evening, I came home and found my mother sitting at the kitchen table with her laptop open.
She turned it toward me.
A dress was on the screen.
It was beautiful.
“Absolutely not.”
She smiled.
“I didn’t ask you yet.”
“You were about to.”
“Try it.”
“No.”
“Emily.”
“Mom.”
“Prom only happens once.”
“So does getting food poisoning, and people survive that too.”
She laughed.
I smiled.
Then she became serious.
“Sweetheart, you have spent your whole life letting that night decide what you’re allowed to do.”
I looked away.
“It doesn’t decide anything.”
“Then go.”
I didn’t answer.
She reached across the table and took my hand.
“You don’t have to find a date.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to dance.”
