At seventeen, I thought the hardest part of prom would be finding a date. Instead, it became a battleground for my family’s soul. Since my father’s passing a year ago, my stepmother, Carla, had transitioned from a distant relative to a household dictator. She seized the accounts, the mail, and the trust funds my late mother had painstakingly set aside for our milestones. When I told her I needed a dress for prom, she didn’t just say no; she laughed. “Prom dresses are a ridiculous waste of money,” she sneered, her eyes never leaving her phone. “No one wants to...
Continues…