I’m 35, basically raising two energetic boys mostly on my own, and our street has always been the kind of harmless, suburban neighborhood where kids play outside and people wave from their porches. That is, until our neighbor across the street decided that normal kid laughter was a problem—and turned it into something way bigger than anyone should have to deal with. I feel like I live as a single mom most days. Mark, my husband, works insane hours. Gone before the kids wake up, home right before lights out.

When Tessa’s prom dreams are torn apart—literally—she thinks the night is over before it even begins. The dress she worked months to afford is ruined in seconds, and the people who should protect her choose to laugh instead. But help comes from the last place she expects, and what follows isn’t loud or messy. It’s quiet, steady, and powerful—a lesson about memory, repair, and a kind of justice that doesn’t need to shout to be heard. Brooke yanked the zipper on my prom dress even after I told her to