A week before my final school dance, my prom, Jane stepped into the role of evil stepmother. My dad married Jane six years ago, long after he and my mother separated. When Jane moved in, so did her daughter, Amy. “You and Amy are the same age,” my dad said. “I think you two will get along really well.” I don’t think so,” I said. “She’s barely said a word to me.” “Elsa,” Dad said. “Give it time.” Jane enrolled Amy at my school because it was closer to home, and she thought it would give us something to bond over.

Initially, Jane tried to be a good stepmother and even tried to include me in her and Amy’s nail appointments. But the older we got, the closer they became — shutting me out completely. “Maybe Amy’s just going through something,” my father said when we went for ice cream, and I confessed. “Maybe she just needs extra time with her mom.” I learned to live with it, getting used to the fact that even though Jane called me her daughter, I wasn’t going to be.

Then, we entered our final year at school, and prom quickly became the highlight of the social calendar. I didn’t want to admit it to my father, but I was excited for prom — Mason and I were finally dating, and I knew that the day was going to be magical. I also knew that while my father would pay for my dream dress, I wanted to work for it myself. If Dad buys yours, he will have to buy Amy’s too, I thought to myself. So, I took extra shifts at the diner I worked at — anything to add to my dress fund. A few weeks leading up to prom, I added babysitting to my schedule. Finally, I had enough for my dream dress. Dad drove me to the store and waited patiently while I tried it on. When I stepped out, he beamed at me. “Oh, Elsa,” he said. “You look beautiful, darling.” That was all I needed from him. “Are you sure you want to pay for it yourself?” Dad asked when we were at the till. “Because I’ll do it in a heartbeat.” I refused and paid for the dress. “But you can buy me a waffle,” I grinned. Then, my picture-perfect dream shattered. A few hours later, I walked into the house after my shift at the diner. Amy and Jane were sitting in the living room, wiping my grandmother’s silver teapot. With pieces from my dress. I shrieked. “Honey,” Jane asked, the picture of concern. “What’s wrong?” “That’s my dress!” I said, picking up a piece. Oh!” Jane exclaimed. “It was your prom dress?” “You did this?” I asked, unable to breathe properly. “Well, yes,” Jane said smugly. “But I thought that I was cutting up some secondhand dress. It didn’t look prom-worthy. So, I thought I’d use it to polish the silver and the windows.” I couldn’t take it any longer. I burst out crying — the tears dropping fast onto my clothes. i heard Dad’s heavy footsteps from somewhere in the house, but it was clear that Jane didn’t. Because she stood up, walking closer to me. “Now, now, Elsa,” she said. “You should have known better; you cannot be more beautiful than Amy. Amy is taking prom queen title. You cannot outshine her.” I looked up at her, trying to understand how she could be so horrible to me. I wasn’t a stranger to Jane, but she treated me as though she didn’t care about me at all.

Maybe she didn’t. But then her face went pale. “What did you just say?” Dad demanded from behind me. The room went silent, my father’s anger thick and heavy. “Did you do this, Jane?” he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “I can fix it,” Jane stuttered. Dad stormed to his and Jane’s bedroom, bringing a dress with him — it was the same color as her custom wedding dress, but I knew it wasn’t the exact dress. He ripped the dress with his hands, the sound of the tear taking over the silence. Jane screamed, clearly mistaking the dress for her wedding dress. “Dad,” I said, trying to calm him down. But my father just shook his head. He threw the pieces of the dress at her. “Fix this,” he said. My dad wasn’t insane — although he was livid, there was no way he would actually rip up Jane’s wedding dress. “I’m done,” he said. “You can’t keep hurting my child.” After the confrontation, my prom dreams dwindled. But I took a moment to reflect on what it meant to me. It was supposed to be magical. The thought of missing out on it, of being denied that experience because of a senseless act of jealousy, was more painful than I could express. On the day of prom, my father fetched me from school, a box in the car. “It’s your dress, darling,” he said. “You go and have fun tonight. Now, let’s get your hair done.” On the way home, my father told me that he wanted to divorce Jane. “I’ve been blind to her treatment of you for too long, Elsa. It’s done now. The future is for you and I, and the fights we’ll have about college,” he grinned.