My stepmother took pictures of my graduation dress and appeared with an identical copy. What my dance companion did later left 200 people speechless.

Shirley smiled like she’d won something.

My father looked at the ground.

I turned to the exit, fighting tears, but my companion, Gary, took my arm.

Don’t go away, Delilah.

Those words stopped me.

Because my mother had said the same thing while making the dress.

A year earlier, Mom was sitting on the bed with powdered pink fabric spread over her lap. She was already very ill, and some days her hands were so shaking that she could barely hold a spoon.

Still, she insisted on sewing herself the little fabric flowers around the neckline.

“Mom, let me finish it,” I pleaded.

“No. The flowers are mine.

I knew I probably wouldn’t live long enough to see me wear the dress at graduation.