She rarely complained. She learned to make thrift-store clothes look stylish and never asked for what she knew we couldn’t afford. Still, I knew there was one thing most high school girls dreamed of: prom night.
When I asked if she planned to go, she shrugged and tried to sound indifferent. She said she’d checked secondhand shops, that nothing seemed right, that it didn’t matter anyway. But I heard the disappointment she worked so hard to hide.
The next day, I found a bolt of soft blue satin in a vintage shop. It wasn’t cheap, but I could manage it. That night, after finishing my diner shift, I hauled my old sewing machine onto the kitchen table and began to work.
I sewed for days. My fingers cramped, my eyes burned, but I stitched every seam with love. The night before prom, Emma slipped into the dress and slowly turned in front of the mirror. The fabric caught the light perfectly.
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