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.
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.
Just then, the music cut off. The principal, Mr. Bradley, stood at the center with a microphone.
“Before we continue,” he said, “there’s something important I need to say.”
The room fell silent.
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