Her father’s police uniform.
“I wasn’t—” she started.
“It’s okay.”
She looked back at the garment bag. “I had a crazy idea… I mean, I don’t want to go to prom, so it’s fine if you say no, but… but if I did go… I’d want him with me. And I thought, maybe, if I used his uniform…”
Wren had spent years pretending not to want what other girls wanted. Birthday parties, team trips, and father-daughter events at school.
She had turned disappointment into a personality so early that it scared me sometimes.
“I had a crazy idea.”
I stepped closer. “Open it. Let’s see what you have to work with.”
She looked at me. “What?”
“The bag. Open it.”
She took a breath, reached for the zipper, and pulled it down.
The uniform was neatly pressed, still clean. I put my arm around her shoulders and stared at it silently.
Wren touched the sleeve with two fingers.
“Well? Do you think it could work?”
“Open it. Let’s see what you have to work with.”
My late husband’s mother had taught Wren to sew when she was young. Wren still had her old sewing machine, and occasionally begged me for fabric to make her own clothes.
“It’s cheaper than buying what’s fashionable at the store,” she’d say.
Wren’s brow furrowed as her hands moved across the uniform.
