I found my prom dress at a thrift store for $12. Midnight blue, lace across the back, perfect. Grandma called it fate.
We didn’t have money for extras. Since Dad left, it had been Mom, Grandma, and me, surviving on love and secondhand everything. Prom felt out of reach—until that dress.
While hemming it, we found something hidden in the lining.
A letter.
Ellie, it read. I gave you up when you were little because I couldn’t raise you. I’ve loved you every day. If you want to find me, here’s my address. Love, Mom.
It was a plea for forgiveness that had never been delivered.
We tried to trace the donor, but the store had no records. Prom came, and I wore the dress anyway. Somehow, I was crowned queen.
Later, my literature teacher stopped me, staring at the lace.
“My mother made that dress,” she whispered. “It had a secret pocket.”
My heart pounded. “Was there a note?”
Tears filled her eyes. “For my daughter. Ellie. I was sixteen. I let her go.”
I handed her the letter.
That summer, we searched together. Weeks later, in a sunlit park, Ellie stepped from a car—her mother’s eyes, her own life behind her.
When she read the note, she fell into her mother’s arms.
Three women.
One forgotten message.
A twelve-dollar dress that finally found its way home.
