Chapter 7

I graduated from State in three years. Early. With honors.

I'd studied business. I wanted to start my own company. A clothing company — affordable, beautiful formal wear for girls who couldn't afford designer prices. The Lace Project, but bigger. A real business.

I called it Lace & Light. We sold graduation dresses. Prom dresses. Bridesmaid dresses. All under a hundred dollars. All designed by me. All beautiful.

It took off. Within a year, we were online, shipping nationwide. Within two, we had a storefront. Within three, we had five stores. I was twenty-five. I was a CEO. I was — happy.

Dad was my biggest fan. He came to every store opening. He told everyone he met about my company. He cried when I made the Forbes 30 Under 30 list.

Helen and Dad got married. Small wedding. In the backyard. Mia was there. She was a nurse now. Working at a hospital. Happy. She'd met someone — a physical therapist, kind and steady. They were engaged.

Mia asked me to be her maid of honor.

I said yes.

At her wedding, she wore a dress from Lace & Light. Ivory. Simple. Beautiful. She cried when she put it on.

"Aaliyah," she said, looking in the mirror. "I destroyed your dress. And now you're giving me mine. How can you —"

I hugged her. "Because dresses are just cloth, Mia. But people? People matter. You matter. And I'm glad you're my sister."

She cried. I cried. The bridesmaids cried.

It wasn't the sisterhood I'd imagined. It was better. Because we'd earned it. Through pain. Through truth. Through work.

Carla was released from prison that year. She wrote to Mia. Mia didn't write back. She'd made her choice. She'd built a life. And Carla wasn't part of it.

I never heard from Carla. And I was grateful.

The Lace Project — the charity — had given away over ten thousand dresses by then. Ten thousand girls, going to prom, to graduation, to interviews, feeling beautiful. Feeling seen.

I told their stories on our website. With their permission. Girls who'd survived. Girls who'd thrived. Girls who'd been told they weren't enough, and had proven everyone wrong.

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And in every story, I saw myself. The girl with the shredded dress. The girl with no money. The girl who'd sewn a new dress from her mother's favorite fabric.

We were everywhere. And we were unstoppable.