He had taught me how to sew when I was younger. Back when life still felt… whole.
After he died, the house changed.
It stopped feeling like mine.
I became someone who just lived there.
Did chores. Stayed out of the way. Kept quiet.
So I worked on the dress at night. Slowly. Carefully. Like I was holding on to something that mattered.
And when it was finally done… I knew.
It wasn’t just a dress.
It was the last piece of him I still had.
When I stepped into the living room, they noticed immediately.
My stepmother looked me up and down like I had done something embarrassing.
My stepsisters laughed.
Not loudly.
Worse—quiet, cutting laughs. The kind that stay with you.
“Is that supposed to be a dress?” one of them said.
I didn’t answer.
I just stood there.
Because if I said anything, I knew my voice would shake.
Then there was a knock at the door.
Not loud. Just… firm.
Everyone went quiet.
My stepmother opened it.
A man stood there in uniform.
Straight posture. Serious expression.
The room changed instantly.
