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.
Prom night arrived. The venue buzzed with lights and music. I walked in, and whispers began almost immediately.
A girl sneered: “Is that dress made from our janitor’s rags?!”
A boy laughed: “Is that what you wear when you can’t afford a real dress?”
Laughter rippled outward. My face burned. “I made this dress from my dad’s old shirts,” I blurted. “He passed away a few months ago, and this was my way of honoring him. So maybe it’s not your place to mock something you know nothing about.”
Silence hung for a moment, then another girl rolled her eyes: “Relax! Nobody asked for the sob story!”
I felt 11 again, hearing “She’s the janitor’s daughter… he washes our toilets!” I sat near the edge of the room, breathing slowly, refusing to break in front of them. Then someone shouted that my dress was “disgusting.” My eyes filled.
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