Her voice went flat. “Because your father was bad with money and bad with boundaries.”
I went upstairs and cried into my pillow, feeling twelve years old again.
Noah’s Idea
Two nights later, Noah came into my room carrying a stack of old jeans—Mom’s jeans.
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
“With this?” I looked at the pile.
“I took sewing last year, remember? I can try.”
I grabbed his wrist. “No. I love the idea.”
We worked in secret whenever Carla was out or locked in her room. Noah dragged Mom’s old sewing machine out of the laundry closet and set it up on the kitchen table.
The dress he made was fitted at the waist and flowed at the bottom in panels of different blues. He used seams, pockets, and faded pieces in ways I never imagined. It looked intentional, sharp, real.
I touched one panel and whispered, “You made this.”
Carla’s Reaction
The next morning, Carla saw the dress hanging on my door.
“Please tell me you are not serious,” she said, then burst out laughing. “What is that?”
“My prom dress,” I replied.
She laughed harder. “That patchwork mess?”
Noah stepped out of his room, face red.
“I’m wearing it,” I said firmly.
