The first time she tried to sew the dress, her hands wouldn’t cooperate.
The needle slipped, pricking her thumb, but she stayed silent. Carefully wiping the blood away, she made sure not to stain the olive fabric spread across her bed. This wasn’t just cloth—it carried memories. A faint trace of her father’s familiar scent lingered, grounding her in a way nothing else could.
She couldn’t let anyone know what she was doing.
If Camila or her daughters discovered it, she knew the outcome—mockery, whispers, another reason to feel small. So she worked quietly, stitching late into the night, turning grief into something tangible.
Each thread held meaning. Each seam was a step toward reclaiming a part of herself she thought she had lost.
After her father remarried, the house had changed. Warmth became conditional. Kindness faded when he wasn’t around. Responsibilities grew heavier, and she slowly disappeared into the background. Camila’s daughters, Lia and Jen, filled the space with noise and entitlement, leaving little room for her voice.
But in those quiet moments, alone with the fabric, she felt close to him again.
And that’s when the idea came alive.
This wouldn’t just be a dress for prom—it would be a story. A transformation. A way to carry his presence with her.
Continue reading on next page…