After finishing chores, I’d sit under my desk lamp, stitching late into the night. Sometimes, I’d whisper goodnight to him.
One afternoon, I was sewing when Jen burst into my room without knocking, arms full of dresses.
I quickly threw a blanket over my project.
“What are you hiding, Cinderella?” she smirked.
“Nothing. Just homework.”
She scoffed and shoved a wrinkled dress at me.
“Steam this for Lia tonight. And don’t ruin it.”
“Got it.”
She eyed the blanket but eventually left.
When the door closed, I uncovered my work and smiled.
Dad would’ve called it “stealth sewing.”
Three nights before prom, I pricked my finger again.
A drop of blood stained the inside hem.
For a moment, staring at the uneven seams, I almost gave up.
But I didn’t.
When I finally tried the dress on, I didn’t see the girl who cleaned up after everyone else.
I saw my father’s jacket.
My work.
My story.
On prom night, the house was chaos.
Camila sat in the kitchen, tapping her nails against a mug.
“Chelsea, did you iron Lia’s dress?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Lia rushed in. “Jen, where’s my lip gloss?”
“I didn’t take it!” Jen snapped.
Camila cut them off.
“Chelsea, did you clean the living room?”
“Yes.”
I slipped upstairs, heart pounding.
