Her voice went cold. “Because your father was terrible with money and even worse with boundaries.”
I went upstairs and cried into my pillow like I was 12 again.
Outside my door I heard Ethan pacing quietly, too nervous to knock.
Two nights later he walked into my room holding a stack of old denim.
Mom’s jeans.
He placed them on my bed and said, “Do you trust me?”
“With what?” I asked.
He shifted nervously. “I took sewing class last year. Remember?”
I looked at the jeans, then at him. “What are you saying?”
“I could try making a dress.”
He instantly panicked. “I mean, if that sounds stupid, forget it—”
I grabbed his wrist.
“No,” I said. “I love that idea.”
We only worked when Melissa was gone or locked in her bedroom. Ethan pulled Mom’s old sewing machine from the laundry closet and set it up on the kitchen table.
For hours we cut and stitched denim pieces together.
Sometimes we talked about Mom. Sometimes we didn’t.
But it felt like she was there with us—in the fabric, in the careful way Ethan handled every piece.
By the time he finished, the dress was incredible.
It was fitted at the waist and flowed out at the bottom with panels of different denim shades. He used old seams, pockets, and faded sections in ways that somehow looked intentional and stylish.
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