“I had this crazy idea… I mean, I don’t even want to go to prom, so it’s fine if you say no. But if I did go… I’d want him with me. And I thought maybe… I could use his uniform.”
For years, Wren had convinced herself she didn’t want what other girls had—birthday parties, school trips, father-daughter events. She turned disappointment into independence so early it worried me.
I stepped closer. “Open it. Let’s see what you’re working with.”
She blinked. “What?”
“The bag.”
She took a breath, unzipped it, and revealed the neatly pressed uniform.
I wrapped an arm around her shoulders as we both stared at it.
She brushed the sleeve gently.
“Do you think it could work?”
Wren had learned to sew from her grandmother. She still kept her sewing machine and often made her own clothes.
“I can turn this into a prom dress,” she said slowly. “But… are you really okay with that?”
Part of me wasn’t. That uniform had meant everything to Matt. It was a reminder of how he died.
But my daughter was here—and she needed this.
“Of course,” I said, pulling her into a hug. “I’d love to see what you create.”
For the next two months, our home became a workshop.
Fabric covered the dining table. Thread rolled under chairs. Pins showed up in places I still don’t understand.
The badge stayed on the mantle in a velvet box.
Not his official one—that had been returned after the funeral.
This one was more special.
I remembered the night he gave it to her.
Wren was three, sitting on the living room floor when Matt came home and crouched beside her.
“I’ve got something for you,” he said, holding out a small badge.
It wasn’t official—just carefully shaped metal, polished to shine. His number was written across it in marker.
“I made you your own so you can be my partner.”
Wren held it with both hands.
“Am I a police officer too?”
He smiled. “You’re my brave girl.”
