After he died, the house changed.
It stopped feeling like mine.
I became someone who just lived there.
Did chores. Stayed out of the way. Kept quiet.
So I worked on the dress at night. Slowly. Carefully. Like I was holding on to something that mattered.
And when it was finally done… I knew.
It wasn’t just a dress.
It was the last piece of him I still had.
When I stepped into the living room, they noticed immediately.
My stepmother looked me up and down like I had done something embarrassing.
My stepsisters laughed.
Not loudly.
Worse—quiet, cutting laughs. The kind that stay with you.
“Is that supposed to be a dress?” one of them said.
I didn’t answer.
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