Wearing a vintage Bohemian A-line lace gown with long lace sleeves had me wondering how my mom had even afforded a dress like this.
It wasn’t white — it was a soft, warm cream, and the shoes she placed carefully by my side were deep red high heels that made the whole look pop with unexpected life.
My blonde hair was pinned into a loose, elegant French-tail braid bun, delicate little beads woven through the strands like tiny blessings.
I barely recognized myself in the mirror.
My mom — my warrior, my heart — moved with quiet determination, taking out a pair of old earrings from a velvet pouch and gently fastening them onto me.
Her hands shook just a little.
With a soft, knowing smile, she spoke to me in that calming tone she used when I was a child:
“I know this early freedom for you
