“Then stop doing extra work for someone who enjoys watching you bleed.”
I looked up at him. “You make that sound simple. I don’t know why she hates me.”
“It isn’t simple,” he said quietly. “It’s just still true.”
A week before prom, he knocked on my bedroom door holding a garment bag.
My heart started pounding before he even spoke.
“Before you react,” he said, “know two things. One, it’s not perfect. Two, the zipper and I are no longer friends.”
“Dad…”
“Wait. Slow down. Don’t rip anything.”
But I was already crying, and he hadn’t even opened it yet.
He sighed. “Sydney, I haven’t shown it to you.”
Then he unzipped the bag.
For a second, I couldn’t breathe.
The dress was ivory, soft and glowing, with delicate blue flowers curving across the bodice and tiny hand-stitched details along the hem. It looked elegant without trying. Gentle. Timeless. Alive.
I covered my mouth. “Dad…”
He suddenly looked nervous, which was almost more than I could take.
“Your mom’s gown had good bones,” he said. “It just needed some adjusting. She was taller. And she had very strong opinions about sleeves.”
I stared at him. “You made this from Mom’s wedding dress?”
He nodded once.
That was it. I broke.
He started toward me immediately. “Hey, if you hate it, you hate it. We can still figure something out—”
“I don’t hate it.”
My voice cracked so badly he stopped in the middle of the room.
I reached out and touched one of the blue flowers. “It’s beautiful.”
His eyes filled then, which made mine worse.
He cleared his throat. “Your mom would have wanted to be there. I couldn’t give you that.” He looked at the dress, then back at me. “But I thought maybe I could let part of her go with you.”
I threw my arms around him so hard he made a startled sound.
He hugged me back and muttered into my hair, “Easy, girl. Your old man is fragile.”
“You are not fragile.”
He pulled away and looked at me. “Try it on.”
When I stepped out wearing it, he just stared.
“What?”
He blinked once, fast. “Nothing. It’s just… you look like somebody who ought to have everything good in the world.”
Prom night came warm and clear.
Lila gasped the second she saw me. Her date said, “Whoa,” in a tone I chose to interpret as respectful. Even I felt different walking into that ballroom. Not rich. Not transformed. Just… whole somehow. Like I was carrying both my parents with me. My mother in the fabric. My father in every careful stitch.
For one beautiful moment, I let myself feel pretty.
Then Mrs. Tilmot saw me.
She drifted toward me with a champagne flute in one hand and that familiar expression on her face, the one that always looked like she had smelled something rotten and decided it was me.
She stopped right in front of me and looked me up and down slowly.
I went cold.
Then she said, loud enough for the people around us to hear, “Well. I suppose if the theme was attic clearance, you’ve nailed it.”
The group nearest us went silent.
She tilted her head. “Did you really think you could compete for prom queen in that, Sydney? It looks like somebody turned old curtains into a home economics project.”
My whole body locked.
I heard someone inhale sharply behind me. Lila said her name in a warning tone, but Mrs. Tilmot only laughed.
Then she reached toward the blue flowers on my shoulder.
“What are these?” she asked. “Hand-stitched pity?”
“Mrs. Tilmot?”
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