I wore a prom dress my father created from my late mother’s wedding gown, and for one perfect moment, it felt like she was there with me.

Then my harshest teacher humiliated me in front of everyone… until a police officer stepped in and changed everything.

The first time I saw my dad sewing in the living room, I honestly thought something was wrong.
He was a plumber—rough hands, aching knees, boots worn from years of work. Sewing wasn’t something he did.

And yet, there he was, bent over soft ivory fabric, keeping secrets behind a closed closet door and hiding brown paper packages.

“Go to bed, Syd,” he said without looking up.