My Ex’s Wife Tried to Humiliate Me—But My Daughter Stole the Spotlight (3 of 3)

She walked in like she was born to shine, her head high, her lips painted the soft rose pink I once wore to my own prom. Her friends swarmed around her, snapping photos, gushing over the design. A teacher asked if it was custom. She smiled and said, “Yeah. My mom made it.”

And Debbi? She stood frozen on the sidewalk, still holding the dress bag. That smug smile? Gone. Replaced with something bitter and confused. Like she couldn’t comprehend what had just happened.

But I could.

Love isn’t bought. It’s sewn, one stitch at a time, in late nights and little sacrifices.

Rose chose more than a dress that night. She chose us. Our bond. Our story. Our imperfect, hand-sewn masterpiece.

And Debbi? Well, she got to keep the receipt.