That was how I ended up spending the next two weeks rebuilding a dress from another century.
I watched tutorials. I bought beads from the craft store with money I had been saving for shoes. I removed the sleeves, reshaped the neckline, tightened the waist, and added a soft layer of fabric over the skirt so it moved better when I walked.
Every night after homework, I locked myself in my room and worked until my fingers cramped.
The day of prom, I brought the dress into Grandma’s room before I got ready. Her breathing was shallow, but when I held it up, she smiled in this faraway, aching way.
« You repaired it, » she said.
« I had to. Now it looks closer to its original color and design. »
I sat beside her on the bed. « Did you have a good prom? »
Her smile faded, not completely, but enough for me to notice.
« It was beautiful, » she said softly.
Then she turned her face toward the window, and that should have told me something right there. But I did not know enough yet to ask the right questions.
