The first night I tried to stitch the dress, my hands trembled, and the needle pierced my thumb, yet I kept going, careful not to stain the olive fabric.
That fabric wasn’t just cloth—it still smelled faintly like him, a trace of aftershave and warmth, memories I feared sharing with Camila or her daughters.
Each cut of scissors and pull of thread became less about sewing and more about holding myself together, pressing the jacket to my face for comfort.
I imagined him guiding my hands as he once had, steady and patient, even after he married Camila. The house no longer felt like mine, yet I persisted.
Weeks of secret sewing followed, late nights under dim lamps, hiding every scrap. Three nights before prom, pain and doubt almost made me stop—but slipping the dress on revealed something whole.
On prom night, laughter greeted me, but I held my head high. When the doorbell rang with my father’s instructions, I finally stepped into freedom, dancing in something that truly belonged to me.
