When my dad died last spring, the world fell quiet in a way that hurt. He had been my steady—sweet pancakes, terrible jokes, pep talks ending with “You can do anything, sweetheart.” After Mom died when I was eight, it was just us until he married Carla, a woman whose cold perfume and colder smiles never warmed our home. When Dad’s heart failed, she didn’t shed a tear. At his funeral, when I nearly collapsed, she whispered, “You’re embarrassing yourself. He’s gone. It happens.”
Two weeks later she began “clearing clutter,” tossing his suits, shoes, and even the ties he wore for big meetings and Christmas mornings. While she wasn’t looking, I rescued the bag and hid it in my room. Those ties still held his scent, a last piece of him I couldn’t let go.
Prom approached, and one night, sitting with that bag of silk, an idea sparked. If he couldn’t be there, I would bring him with me. I taught myself to sew through late nights and pricked fingers, stitching his ties into a skirt. Each pattern held a memory, and when I zipped it up, it felt like sunlight on my shoulders.
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