Maybe she didn’t. But then her face went pale. “What did you just say?” Dad demanded from behind me. The room went silent, my father’s anger thick and heavy. “Did you do this, Jane?” he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “I can fix it,” Jane stuttered. Dad stormed to his and Jane’s bedroom, bringing a dress with him — it was the same color as her custom wedding dress, but I knew it wasn’t the exact dress. He ripped the dress with his hands, the sound of the tear taking over the silence. Jane screamed, clearly mistaking the dress for her wedding dress. “Dad,” I said, trying to calm him down. But my father just shook his head. He threw the pieces of the dress at her. “Fix this,” he said. My dad wasn’t insane — although he was livid, there was no way he would actually rip up Jane’s wedding dress. “I’m done,” he said. “You can’t keep hurting my child.” After the confrontation, my prom dreams dwindled. But I took a moment to reflect on what it meant to me. It was supposed to be magical. The thought of missing out on it, of being denied that experience because of a senseless act of jealousy, was more painful than I could express. On the day of prom, my father fetched me from school, a box in the car. “It’s your dress, darling,” he said. “You go and have fun tonight. Now, let’s get your hair done.” On the way home, my father told me that he wanted to divorce Jane. “I’ve been blind to her treatment of you for too long, Elsa. It’s done now. The future is for you and I, and the fights we’ll have about college,” he grinned.