My daughter gave up her dream prom dress to give it to a girl who couldn't afford one, and put on a suit instead. When she entered the gym, the principal cried and called the police.
Ten minutes later, two police officers entered the sports hall. Their faces were pale.
One looked at my daughter's jacket and said,
"Miss, come with us. This is much more important than anyone in this room realizes.
I couldn't move.
I stood a few feet away from Nora, with her unbuttoned official coat thrown across my hand and the empty box from the dress to my feet.
There was music all around us.
The bass from the speakers flickered under the floor of the sports hall. Balloons in gold and silver swayed over the dance floor. Students in formal dresses and costumes had gathered in small groups, whispering and looking at us.
Nobody danced anymore.
Nobody was laughing.
Everyone was watching my daughter.
Nora stood in the middle of the hall with her father's black suit.
Her jacket was a little wide in her shoulders. The pants were folded in a hurry with safety needles because I didn't have time to shorten it. It was my white shirt, old, ironed, which I had found in my closet, and I put it in my bag without ever knowing if it would fit it.
But even though the suit was not fit, Nora looked beautiful.
Not the way she would look in the dress she had worked for eight months.
In a different way.
Stronger.
More mature.
She had done something that I, her mother, was not sure if I could do at eighteen.
She had seen someone else's pain and had chosen to relieve her, even when it meant giving up something she had dreamed of.
And now two policemen were standing in front of her.
"What's going on?" I asked at last.
One officer, an older man with gray hair and a serious face, turned to me.
Are you Nora's mother?
"Yes. My name is Maria Nikolova. What's going on? Why are you calling her?
He looked at the principal, Mrs. Valcheva.
She was still holding Nora by the hand.
Her face was wet with tears.
“Mrs. Valcheva?” I asked. “Please.” Tell me what he has.
The principal did not respond immediately.
Her gaze was fixed on the left inside of the jacket. There, near the lining, there was something I had never noticed.
A small embroidered sign.
A faded red thread.
A circle crossed by three lines.
There were two letters below it.
“S. N.”
"Where did you get that suit?" the younger police officer asked.
Nora swallowed.
"I told you." It was my father's.
What was your father’s name?
She looked at me.
I answered for her.
"Stefan Nikolov. He died eleven years ago.
The two policemen looked at each other.
The older man pulled out a phone. He pressed a few buttons, looked at the screen, and looked at Nora again.
"Did Stefan Nikolov work in construction?
