Lia grinned. “You really don’t have a plan? It’s like, the most important night ever.”
I just smiled, but inside I was thinking about Dad teaching me to patch a torn sleeve, his big hands guiding mine at the sewing machine.
Back then, it was just Dad and me, and after Mom died, those small moments became everything.
“You really don’t have a plan?”
The house changed after Dad married Camila. Suddenly, there were two stepsisters, and Camila’s fake affection whenever Dad was around.
But the minute he left for duty, her smile faded. My “chores” doubled, and Lia and Jen started dropping laundry outside my door.
Sometimes I’d stand in Dad’s closet, hold his old jacket to my chest, and whisper, “Miss you, Dad.”
“You’ll make me proud, Chels,” I imagined he’d say. “Whatever you do, wear it like you mean it.”
The house changed after Dad married Camila.
***
It was that night I decided I’d wear his uniform to prom. Not the way it was, but transformed, something new built from what he left behind. It felt like a secret between us.
For weeks, I worked in silence.
After scrubbing the kitchen floor and folding Jen’s endless stacks of shirts, I’d retreat to my room and stitch under my desk lamp.
Sometimes, in the quiet, I’d whisper goodnight to Dad.
I decided I’d wear his uniform to prom.
One Saturday afternoon, I was hunched over my desk, thread in my mouth and Dad’s jacket spread out in front of me, when my door flew open.
Jen barged in without so much as a knock, arms overflowing with pastel dresses and tangled straps.
I startled, yanking the blanket over my project so fast I nearly sent the sewing box flying.
“Careful, Jen!”
She cocked an eyebrow, peering at the lumpy shape beneath the blanket. “What are you hiding, Cinderella?” Her lips curled in a smirk as she dropped the armful of dresses right onto my feet.
“What are you hiding, Cinderella?”
“Nothing,” I said, forcing a yawn and glancing at my open math book. “Just homework.”
She snorted. “Yeah, right. Whatever.” She dug out a wrinkled mint dress and shoved it at me. “Lia needs this steamed by tonight. And don’t burn anything, she’ll freak.”
“Got it.”
Jen’s gaze lingered on the covered project, but then she shrugged and left. When her footsteps faded, I pulled back the blanket and smiled at the stitches. Dad would’ve called it “stealth sewing.”
“Lia needs this steamed by tonight.”
***
Three nights before prom, I stuck myself with the needle again, hard. A bead of blood welled up on my finger, staining the inside hem.
For a moment, staring at the crooked seams, I thought about giving up.
But I didn’t.
When I slipped the finished dress on and faced the mirror, I didn’t see a maid or a shadow.
I saw my dad’s jacket, my stitches, my story.
I thought about giving up.
***
The night of prom, the whole house was in chaos. Camila was already in the kitchen, sipping her second cup of coffee, tapping her nails against her mug like a metronome. She didn’t even look up when I walked by.
“Chelsea, did you iron Lia’s dress?” she barked, eyes still on her phone.
“Yes, ma’am,” I answered quietly, folding dish towels.
I could smell burnt toast and Lia’s perfume battling in the air.
Lia breezed in, waving her phone and holding her sparkling clutch. “Jen, where’s my lip gloss? The gold one. You promised not to touch it!” Her voice echoed down the hallway.
She didn’t even look up when I walked by.
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