When his prom night is sabotaged by the one person meant to hold the family together, 17-year-old Tom must choose between silence and truth. But what begins as heartbreak quietly becomes something else… a reckoning, a revelation, and a moment that might just change everything. People say memory is slippery.
That it changes over time. But I remember everything about that day in perfect detail. Not because of the suit.
Not even because of prom. But because it was the day my dad finally looked at me and saw what I’d been saying all along. It was the day someone finally believed me.
When I was seven, my mom left us. Other than a few cryptic remarks about “finding her joy,” there was no note, no goodbye. Just silence.
My dad, Richard, did his best. He was a decent man trying to do the job of two, which meant a lot of frozen meals and awkward hugs. A year later, he married Sophia.
She was nice, eager to help with my English homework, and even made her own candles, but she never quite fit. Five years later, she was gone too. Then came Leslie.
Leslie of the Pinterest-perfect casseroles. Leslie, with her pageant smile. I was 15 when she moved in with her son, Stuart, who was my age but nothing like me.
Stuart was the kind of kid who wore sunglasses indoors and still failed algebra. Leslie didn’t just blend into our life, she rearranged it. She transferred Stuart to my school and even into my class.
“It’s so the boys can bond, Richard!” she’d said. “Imagine, they’ll be as close as brothers in no time!”
Spoiler: We didn’t. And that’s when Leslie began the silent war.
She didn’t hit, she didn’t yell… but she erased. My clothes were downgraded. My phone wouldn’t hold a charge because the battery was completely worn out.
My plate always looked a little emptier than Stuart’s. She’d wait until Dad left for work. Then the real Leslie would show up with her passive comments and smirks.
“Oh, you thought we were saving breakfast for you, Tom? Oops. Stuart is a growing boy, he needs his extra waffles.”
If I said anything to my father, Leslie would quickly twist the story around to suit her and her precious son.
“Tom’s just acting out again. He wants all the attention.”
Every. Single.
Time. By the time prom rolled around, I’d stopped complaining. I was counting the days until I turned 18 and going away to college would be my silver lining.
My dad thought that it would be nice if we picked out suits together. A “family bonding” trip, in his words. It was the kind of thing normal dads probably suggested without checking the emotional forecast first.
He drove us to the mall with that hopeful smile he wore when he was pretending we were the kind of family that went on ice cream runs and played board games without slamming doors. We hit the formalwear store, and the salesman, with slick hair, and forced cheer plastered on his face, gestured to a row of matching three-pieces. “Same price range, gentlemen,” my dad said, clapping a hand on both our backs.
“To be fair.”
Fair. That word had teeth now. I chose a navy three-piece with a satin lapel.
Classic and clean. Stuart chose charcoal. I didn’t fight him on it, even though I’d wanted charcoal first.
It didn’t matter. Prom would be four hours of awkward small talk, sticky punch, and pretending to care. Then I’d probably toss the suit into my closet and move on.
What I didn’t know, standing under those horrible fluorescent lights while Dad paid and Leslie faked a proud smile, was that I’d never get to wear it. Because someone had already decided the spotlight only had room for one of us. And it wasn’t going to be me.
I’d been looking forward to prom for weeks, but it wasn’t for the usual reasons. I couldn’t care less about the limousine or the dance floor or the awkward photos or even the music, which was bound to suck. It was about Taylor.
Taylor, with the crooked front tooth and the loud laugh and the notes she’d passed me in pre-calc since October. I liked her because she didn’t play any games. When I finally worked up the nerve to ask her, she blinked once.
“Yeah, Tom. But only if you promise to dance!” Her smile reached all the way to her freckles. I promised.
So, naturally, I was excited. Nervous, too. I wanted to show up looking decent.
Just once. I wanted to feel like I belonged in the room. But when I got home from school on prom day, I found what was left of my suit on my bed.
Not in a bag. Not on a hanger. But in pieces.
Pieces of shredded fabric. A tangle of threads and buttons. It looked like an animal had mauled it.
But there were no teeth marks, just the clean, furious slices of someone who wanted to ruin something on purpose. I stood there staring, my backpack sliding off my shoulder. My fingers curled around a scrap of what used to be my blazer sleeve.
I didn’t need a detective to tell me who did it. I walked straight to Leslie’s room. She was sprawled on the bed, flipping through a Vogue like she hadn’t just nuked my night.
“What did you do to my suit?” I asked. “Tom!” she gasped dramatically. “It’s not what you think, honey!”
The story spilled out like a bad soap opera dialogue.
Leslie said that she hung both suits out on the clothesline…
“I just wanted to air out that department store smell, Tom!” she exclaimed. “I know Stuart hates that smell and it was too late to get to the dry cleaners. So… I thought that some sunshine on them would do the trick.”
“But that doesn’t explain what happened to my suit, Leslie,” I said.
“I… accidentally ran over yours with the lawnmower.”
Only mine. Stuart’s suit? Safe.
Phew. What a miracle. “You expect me to actually believe that?” I asked, deadpan.
She clutched her chest like I’d just insulted her cooking. “Tom, honey, I feel so awful about it,” she said. So, I called my dad.
“She already told me about it, son,” he said. “It was an accident. She feels terrible, Tom.
I could hear her shaking through the phone when she told me about it.”
“And you believe her?” I asked, my jaw clenched. “She owned up. She confessed.
That counts. Just throw on a nice shirt and slacks. I’m sure a lot of the guys will be wearing that anyway.
You kids don’t bother with suits anymore. Not unless your parents take you shopping. You don’t have to wear a suit, son.”
I hung up.
But I wasn’t done. Next door lived Mrs. Elizaveta.
She was the kind of neighbor who always knew when your trash was late or if your car had wandered three feet off your property line. She seemed to have a soft spot for me though, always calling me over to ask if I wanted to have a cookie or brownie with her. I’d helped her pick out her first digital camera a month earlier.
She was thrilled it had a video feature. I knew I was going on sheer luck, but I was desperate. So, I went to her house and knocked on the door.
“Tom! You handsome lad, I just made a pot of stew. Would you like some?” she smiled warmly.
“Not really, but thank you. I wanted to ask… did you see anything weird in our backyard today?”
She smiled slowly and nodded. “I didn’t just see it, my dear,” she said.
“I filmed the entire thing. I was actually filming a bird, but then I saw your stepmother come outside. You know me, Tom… nosey as they come.”
The footage was brutal in its simplicity.
Leslie. My suit. The grass.
She laid it out like she was preparing an offering to an Old God. Then she brought out the mower. She revved it once and then drove straight over the suit with the blank expression of someone weeding a garden.
Then she calmly swept it into a trash bag. “Wow,” I said. “She’s a nasty piece of work, dear,” my neighbor said.
“I think there’s something wrong with her… upstairs. If you get what I’m saying?”
I almost laughed. I transferred the file to my phone and sent it to my father.
“Thank you, Mrs. Elizaveta. You’ve helped me more than you’ll ever know.”
“Well, stay and have a bowl of stew!” she said, already heading to the kitchen.
One hour later, my father walked into the house. I was sitting in my room, listening to music and wondering how I was going to break the news to Taylor. I’d tried on my slacks, but they sat at
