Life after divorce taught me resilience, but nothing prepared me for the day my ex’s new wife tried to win over my daughter with money. My name is April, and six years ago, Mark and I split. He moved on swiftly with Cassandra—a woman who treats kindness like an outdated policy.
Our 17-year-old, Lily, is my pride—smart, driven, and about to graduate. One night, she burst into the kitchen, gushing over a dazzling prom dress online. It was exquisite—glittering beads, flowing satin—until I spotted the price. A thousand dollars. My stomach dropped.
Working two jobs barely covers our bills. I swallowed my guilt and said, “It’s gorgeous,” but Lily saw right through me. “Forget it, Mom,” she murmured. Later, I scrolled through the dress’s images, remembering my mother’s hands guiding mine over fabric, teaching me to mend before I could even spell “designer.”
The next day, I proposed an alternative: “Let’s make your dress.” Lily bit her lip. “You’re already exhausted.” But I insisted. “The best things are made with heart.” Reluctantly, she agreed.
We spent evenings sketching and selecting fabric—soft pink, like a sunset. I swiped my credit card, pushing fears aside. Night after night, I sewed while Lily shared her dreams. When she slipped into the finished gown, she whispered, “It’s perfect.”
Then, Cassandra showed up with the dress, smug as ever. Lily thanked her but stayed silent. Prom night, as I curled her hair, my heart raced. Then—she walked downstairs in our creation.
Cassandra’s jaw dropped at the dance. “Where’s my dress?” Lily smiled. “This one’s priceless.” Her social media post later went viral: “My mom’s late-night love stitches mean more than any price tag.”
Cassandra’s petty demand for reimbursement? Lily shut it down: “Love isn’t a transaction.” Mark’s belated apology didn’t fix a thing.
Now, that dress hangs in Lily’s dorm—a reminder that real love isn’t bought. It’s sewn, one heartfelt stitch at a time.
