The first time I started stitching, my hands trembled so badly that I drove the needle straight through my thumb.
I bit back a cry, wiped away the blood, and kept going, careful not to let a single drop stain the olive fabric spread across my quilt.
If Camila or her daughters found out I was using Dad’s uniform, they’d never let me hear the end of it.
The jacket was worn at the cuffs, softened from years of use.
I used to bury my face in it after we learned he wasn’t coming home—breathing in the faint scent of his aftershave, salt, and machine oil.
Now, every stitch felt like I was slowly putting myself back together.
I never dreamed about prom. Not the way my stepsisters, Lia and Jen, did.
One Saturday morning, I walked into the kitchen and found Lia surrounded by magazines.
“Chelsea, which do you like better? Strapless or sweetheart neckline?” she asked.
Before I could answer, Jen popped a grape into her mouth.
“Why ask her? She’ll probably show up in one of her dad’s flannel shirts or some ancient dress.”
I shrugged. “I think both would look great on you. I haven’t really thought about it.”
Lia smiled. “You don’t have a plan? It’s the most important night ever.”
I smiled back—but inside, I was remembering Dad teaching me how to sew, guiding my hands at the machine.
After Mom died, those moments meant everything.
Everything changed after Dad married Camila.
Suddenly, there were two stepsisters—and Camila’s kindness only existed when Dad was home.
Once he left, her smile disappeared. My chores doubled. Lia and Jen began leaving their laundry outside my door.
Sometimes, I’d stand in Dad’s closet, clutch his jacket, whispering,
“I miss you, Dad.”
And in my mind, I could hear him say,
“You’ll make me proud, Chels. Whatever you do, wear it like you mean it.”
That was the moment I decided.
I would wear his uniform to prom—not as it was, but transformed into something new.
It became my secret.
For weeks, I worked quietly.
