I looked at the jeans, then at him. “What are you saying?”
“I could try making a dress.”
He instantly panicked. “I mean, if that sounds stupid, forget it—”
I grabbed his wrist.
“No,” I said. “I love that idea.”
We only worked when Melissa was gone or locked in her bedroom. Ethan pulled Mom’s old sewing machine from the laundry closet and set it up on the kitchen table.
For hours we cut and stitched denim pieces together.
Sometimes we talked about Mom. Sometimes we didn’t.
But it felt like she was there with us—in the fabric, in the careful way Ethan handled every piece.
By the time he finished, the dress was incredible.
It was fitted at the waist and flowed out at the bottom with panels of different denim shades. He used old seams, pockets, and faded sections in ways that somehow looked intentional and stylish.
I touched the fabric and whispered, “You made this.”
The next morning Melissa saw it hanging on my door.
She stopped, stared at it, then walked closer.
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
“What?” I said.
“That thing.”
“It’s my prom dress.”
She burst out laughing.
“That patchwork disaster?”
Ethan came out of his room immediately.
Melissa looked between us. “You’re actually serious?”
“I’m wearing it,” I said.
She placed a hand on her chest dramatically. “If you show up at prom wearing that, the entire school will laugh at you.”
Ethan stiffened beside me.
“It’s fine,” I said quietly.
“No, it’s not,” she snapped, waving toward the dress. “It looks pathetic.”
“I made it,” Ethan said suddenly.
Melissa turned to him slowly.
“You made it?”
He lifted his chin. “Yeah.”
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