The first stitch burned—not from pain, but from memory. My hands trembled as I pushed the needle through thick olive fabric, the same fabric my father had worn for years. When the needle pierced my thumb, I didn’t flinch. I wiped the blood away, careful not to ruin the cloth, and kept going.
This uniform wasn’t just clothing. It was the last piece of him I still had.
I worked in secret, always alone. If Camila, my stepmother, or my stepsisters ever caught me, it would become yet another reason to belittle me. In that house, nothing I did was ever enough.
The jacket was worn at the edges, its cuffs softened by time. Sometimes I caught a faint trace of his scent—aftershave, something metallic, familiar. It grounded me.
I wasn’t just making a dress. I was stitching myself back together.
Prom had never mattered to me—not like it did to Lia and Jen. They obsessed over fabrics, heels, and magazines while I stayed quiet. When they asked my opinion, I shrugged. They didn’t need to know I already had a plan. I would wear his uniform—not as it was, but transformed into something mine.
Every night, after chores and cleaning, I pulled the fabric from the closet and stitched. Slowly. Quietly. Carefully. One afternoon, Jen barged in, arms full of dresses she wanted me to fix. I hid my work instantly. She scowled, didn’t push, and left. I smiled, almost done.
Continue reading on next page…