The Weight She Carried
Months earlier, I had found Hazel’s old freshman-year journals tucked behind a row of paperbacks.
Inside were names.
Names of girls. Names of boys. Cruel little phrases written in her round handwriting — the kind of words people only write down because they cannot bear to say them aloud.
I put the journal back exactly where I had found it.
As spring arrived, prom invitations began appearing in other girls’ mailboxes. Their mothers filled social media with photos of pastel dresses and bouquets.
One evening, I knocked on Hazel’s door.
“Sweetheart. Prom is in three weeks.”
“I’m not going, Mom.”
“Mason wanted you to go.”
Silence followed.
Eventually I heard the bed creak. Footsteps approached. The door opened barely an inch.
“Mason wanted a lot of things.”
“He wanted you to wear a dress and dance and laugh,” I said. “He told me so.”
“Mom.”
“Just try one on. One dress. If you hate it, we come home and never speak of it again. Deal?”
Through that narrow opening, I saw something flicker behind her eyes.
Not hope. Not yet. Maybe curiosity. Maybe the smallest permission.
“One dress,” she said.
