Weeks passed like that.
Thread everywhere.
Burnt dinners.
Bandages on his fingers.
But he never stopped.
That’s when I realized—this wasn’t just about a dress.
School wasn’t much easier.
My teacher, Mrs. Tilmot, had a way of making you feel small without ever raising her voice.
“Try to look more awake.”
“That essay was disappointing.”
“Oh, you’re upset? How dramatic.”
I told myself it didn’t matter.
Until it did.
A week before prom, my dad came into my room holding a garment bag.
“I hope it’s okay,” he said quietly.
My heart already knew.
He unzipped it.
And I stopped breathing.
It wasn’t just a dress.
It was my mom’s wedding gown… transformed.
Something new.
Something made just for me.
“You made this… from her dress?” I whispered.
He nodded. “I figured she’d want to be part of it.”
And somehow… she was.
When I tried it on, he just stood there, staring.
