So we started working in secret whenever Carla left the house or stayed locked in her room.
Noah dug Mom’s old sewing machine out of the laundry closet and set it up in the kitchen. Night after night, he cut denim panels, stitched seams, and carefully shaped fabric with more patience than I had ever seen from him.
Watching him handle Mom’s old clothes so gently nearly broke my heart.
When the dress was finally done, I couldn’t stop staring at it.
It hugged the waist perfectly and flowed at the bottom in layered shades of faded blue denim. Noah had somehow turned old jeans into something artistic and beautiful.
For the first time in a long while, it felt like Mom was still with us.
The next morning, Carla saw the dress hanging on my bedroom door.
She walked closer, stared at it for a second, then burst out laughing.
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
“It’s my prom dress,” I said.
