She inhaled, unzipped it, and revealed the neatly pressed uniform.
I wrapped my arm around her shoulders as we both looked at it.
She gently brushed the sleeve.
“Do you think it could work?”
Wren had learned to sew from her grandmother. She still had the sewing machine and often made her own clothes.
“I can turn this into a prom dress,” she said slowly. “But… are you really okay with that?”
Part of me wasn’t. That uniform had meant everything to Matt. It carried the weight of how we lost him.
But my daughter was standing in front of me—and she needed this.
“Of course,” I said, pulling her into a hug. “I can’t wait to see what you make.”
For the next two months, our house turned into a workshop.
Fabric covered the dining table. Thread rolled under chairs. Pins appeared in places I still don’t understand.
The badge stayed on the mantle in a velvet box.
Not his official badge—that had been returned after the funeral.
This one meant more.
I remembered the night he gave it to her.
Wren was three, sitting on the living room floor when Matt came home and knelt beside her.
“I’ve got something for you,” he said, holding out a small badge.
It wasn’t official—just carefully shaped metal, polished bright. His number was written on it in marker.
“I made you your own so you can be my partner.”
Wren held it in both hands.
“Am I a police officer too?”
He smiled. “You’re my brave girl.”
