“Nothing. Just homework.”
She scoffed and shoved a wrinkled dress at me.
“Steam this for Lia tonight. And don’t ruin it.”
“Got it.”
She eyed the blanket but eventually left.
When the door closed, I uncovered my work and smiled.
Dad would’ve called it “stealth sewing.”
Three nights before prom, I pricked my finger again.
A drop of blood stained the inside hem.
For a moment, staring at the uneven seams, I almost gave up.
But I didn’t.