Until that night.
I took the box down and ran my hand across the soft fabrics.
An idea formed in my mind.
The year before, my neighbor Mrs. Patterson—a retired seamstress—had given me an old sewing machine when she cleared out her basement. She thought I might sell it to help with money after Jenna’s death.
But I never sold it.
So I pulled the machine out of the closet and set it up.
I remembered a few sewing basics my mother had taught me years ago. Over the next three nights, fueled by determination, YouTube tutorials, and several phone calls to Mrs. Patterson, I slowly pieced something together.
Eventually the dress began to take shape.
I leaned back in the chair, exhausted but proud.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was beautiful.
Soft ivory silk stitched together with tiny blue flowers like patchwork.
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