Everyone I loved packed into Sean’s and my apartment to celebrate my birthday. My sister had hung twinkle lights, and Mom made a chocolate cake so frosted it hurt my teeth just to look.
Sean caught my eye and gave that slow, cocky wink that used to make me weak—tonight it felt charged. He’d been acting suspicious this week, slipping away when I asked about my party. I’d convinced myself he was saving up for that baby‑blue dress I couldn’t stop thinking about.
When the door opened, I expected him—or maybe a surprise. Instead, it was his mom, wearing my dream dress. I froze. She had no idea how badly I’d wanted it. “Sean gave it to me last week,” she said, “so I could wear it tonight.”
My heart sank. Sean then handed me a $50 Sephora gift card. I love makeup, but it felt hollow. Confused and hurt, I retreated to a corner while the party carried on without me.
Later, at home, I confronted Sean. He shrugged: “It was a test—to humble you.” I packed my things and left for my sister’s couch.
A week later, Linda called. Over coffee, she confessed Sean had twisted her arm by lying: he told her I had asked her to wear the dress. I felt sick. Then she pulled the dress from her bag—cleaned and pressed—for me.
Tears welled. She said I deserved more than Sean’s manipulation. I knew she was right. I refused to go back to him, but I wanted her in my life.
The dress was mine—finally and rightfully.