“I know,” she said. “I’ll teach you.”
We spread his shirts across the kitchen table and worked with her old sewing kit. I cut fabric wrong twice, had to unstitch entire sections, but Aunt Hilda never discouraged me. She guided my hands, told me when to slow down. Some nights I cried quietly; other nights I spoke to Dad out loud.
Each shirt carried a memory: the one he wore on my first day of high school, the faded green from when he ran alongside my bike, the gray from the day he hugged me after my worst junior year meltdown. The dress became a catalog of him.
The night before prom, I finished it. Standing in front of the mirror, I saw every color Dad had ever worn stitched together. It wasn’t designer, but it fit perfectly. For a moment, I felt him there.
My aunt appeared in the doorway, teary-eyed. “Nicole, my brother would’ve loved this. He would’ve absolutely lost his mind over it… in the best way. It’s beautiful, sweetie.”
For the first time since the hospital call, I didn’t feel something missing. Dad was folded into the fabric, just as he’d always been folded into my life.
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