He looked at me carefully and said, “Leave the dress to me.”
I laughed at first—it sounded impossible coming from him—but he meant it.
After that, I started noticing things. The closet stayed shut. Packages appeared and disappeared. At night, I could hear the soft hum of a sewing machine.
One evening, I caught him working under a lamp, carefully guiding the fabric like it was something fragile and important.
For almost a month, that became our routine. He stayed up late, pricked his fingers, even burned dinner once or twice trying to do both at the same time.
Meanwhile, school felt heavier because of my English teacher, Mrs. Tilmot. She never yelled, but her quiet, cutting remarks made everything worse.
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