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By the time my daughter asked to see prom, our world had already narrowed to medicine schedules, quiet routines, and borrowed hope. I thought the hardest part of that night would be watching her want one last ordinary teenage memory. I was wrong.
The hum of the oxygen machine had become the soundtrack of our home. Steady. Patient. A quiet metronome marking days I tried not to count.
“I still want this one, Mom,” she said, tracing the bodice with one finger. “Even if I only get to wear something close.”
“Do you think they still make dresses like that?”
“I think we can find one.”
After Brittany’s first visit to the hospital, something changed.
Her phone buzzed against the blanket. She glanced at it and turned it face down.
“Brittany?” I asked.
Nora gave a small shrug. “Prom group chat.”
“And?”
“They’re talking about shopping.”
I waited.
“They didn’t ask me.” Her voice stayed calm, but her eyes stayed on the photo. “It’s fine. I haven’t really been invited anywhere in a while.”