She eyed the blanket but eventually left.
When the door closed, I uncovered my work and smiled.
Dad would’ve called it “stealth sewing.”
Three nights before prom, I pricked my finger again.
A drop of blood stained the inside hem.
For a moment, staring at the uneven seams, I almost gave up.
But I didn’t.
When I finally tried the dress on, I didn’t see the girl who cleaned up after everyone else.
I saw my father’s jacket.
My work.
My story.
On prom night, the house was chaos.
Camila sat in the kitchen, tapping her nails against a mug.
“Chelsea, did you iron Lia’s dress?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Lia rushed in. “Jen, where’s my lip gloss?”
“I didn’t take it!” Jen snapped.
Camila cut them off.
