That can wasn’t just money. It was a dress. It was a night I’d been saving pictures for since ninth grade—satin, tulle, something soft that made me feel like I belonged in a life where things turned out. My mom used to say, “I want your life to have sparkle.” She died when I was twelve. Ever since, I’ve been chasing sparkle like it could outrun grief.

Dad remarried when I was fourteen. Enter Linda: designer perfume, perfect posture, a voice that turned every suggestion into a rule. Her daughter, Hailey—same grade, different universe—moved in junior year. We were never enemies, just two people who shared a bathroom mirror like a border