He met my eyes. “I can try.”
He panicked instantly. “I mean, if you hate the idea, that’s fine. I just thought—”
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I grabbed his wrist. “No. I love the idea.”
We worked when Carla went out or locked herself in her room. Noah dragged Mom’s old sewing machine out from the laundry closet and set it up on the kitchen table.
I said, “Bossy.”
The next morning, Carla saw it hanging on my door.
It felt like Mom was in the room with us. In the fabric. In the way Noah handled it so carefully.
The dress was fitted through the waist and flowed at the bottom in panels of different blues. He had used seams and pockets and faded pieces in ways I never would have imagined. It looked intentional. Sharp. Real.
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