Different shades of blue denim layered and stitched together.
Pockets. Seams. Faded patches.
It looked like pieces of Mom’s life sewn into one dress.
When Noah finished it, he hung it on my door.
I touched the fabric and whispered, “You made this.”
He just shrugged.
But he was smiling.
The next morning Carla saw it.
She stared at the dress for a second.
Then she burst out laughing.
“What is that?”
“My prom dress,” I said.
“That patchwork mess?” she said.
Noah stepped into the hallway.
“I made it.”
She looked at him slowly.
“You made it?”
He lifted his chin.
“Yeah.”
She smiled in that slow, cruel way she had.
“That explains a lot.”
I stepped forward.
“Enough.”
She waved toward the dress.
“If you wear that to prom, the whole school will laugh at you.”
Noah’s face turned red.
I said quietly, “I’d rather wear something made with love than something bought by stealing from kids.”
The hallway went silent.
Carla’s expression changed.
