Your phone buzzes on the counter. One message. Your date just canceled. The kitchen smells like coffee and something slightly burnt. Your mom, Eve, stands at the stove in her old robe, stirring nothing in particular, staring at the wall like she forgot what she was doing. She's been like this since the divorce - quietly going through motions, pretending she's fine. You remember the story she told once, almost offhand: she missed her own prom to sit in a hospital waiting room. She laughed it off. She always laughs it off. Your corsage is still in the fridge. The tickets are still in your pocket. And your mom hasn't had a single night that was just for her in longer than you can count. So you take a breath.