One evening, when the dress was nearly complete, Wren walked over to the mantle and picked up the velvet box.
She opened it slowly and stared at the badge.
Then she looked at me.
“I want it here,” she said, placing her hand over her heart.
I hesitated.
People would judge it. Misunderstand it.
And that might hurt her.
But she was 17. She already knew that—and still chose it.
“I think that’s a beautiful idea,” I said.
On prom night, when Wren came downstairs, I couldn’t hold back my tears.
The structure of the uniform was still there—but softened into something elegant, something graceful.
And over her heart… the badge.
When we walked into the gym, heads turned.
A woman near the refreshment table—Susan, one of the mothers—paused mid-sip. Her eyes moved from the badge to Wren’s face.
Then she gave a small, respectful nod.
Wren felt it.
I saw her straighten, shoulders back.
But the moment didn’t last.
One of the girls—beautiful, confident, the type destined for prom queen—approached with her group trailing behind her.
She looked Wren up and down.
Then she laughed.
“Oh, wow,” she said loudly. “This is actually kind of sad.”
The room quieted.
“You tell her, Chloe,” one of the girls chimed in.
Chloe smirked and stepped closer.
“You really made your whole personality about a dead cop, bird girl?”
The silence deepened—that awful kind where people sense something happening and choose not to intervene.
My fists clenched.
Wren tried to walk away.
Chloe stepped in front of her.
“You know what’s worse?” Chloe continued, sharper now. “He’s probably up there right now, watching you…”
She paused.
“…and he’s embarrassed.”
I took a step forward—
But before I could speak, Chloe lifted her drink.
“Let’s fix this.”
And then—
She poured the entire cup of punch over Wren’s chest.
The liquid soaked into the navy fabric, spreading acr
