I wore a prom dress my father made from my late mother’s wedding gown, and for one beautiful moment, I felt like she was with me. Then my cruelest teacher laughed at me in front of everyone, until an officer walked in and changed the whole night.The first time I saw my dad sewing in the living room, I honestly thought he’d lost his mind.He was a plumber with cracked hands, bad knees, and work boots older than some of my classmates. Sewing wasn’t part of his skill set.Neither was secrecy, which made the closed hall closet and the brown paper packages even stranger.”Go to bed, Syd,” he said, hunching over a piece of ivory fabric.I didn’t know yet that he was making me the most important thing I would ever wear.

I leaned on the doorway. “Since when do you even know how to sew?”He didn’t look up. “Since YouTube and your mom’s old sewing kit taught me.”I laughed. “That answer made me more nervous, Dad. Not less.”He finally glanced over his shoulder. “Bed. Now.”That was my dad, John. He could fix a burst pipe in 20 minutes, stretch chili into three dinners, and make a joke out of almost anything. He’d been doing that since I was five, when my mother died and the two of us became our own little household.Money was always tight. He took extra jobs, and I learned early not to ask for much.”That answer made me more nervous, Dad.”By senior spring, prom had taken over the school. Girls talked about limos, nails, shoes, and dresses that cost more than our monthly grocery bill.One night, while I rinsed plates and he sat at the table with a stack of bills, I said, “Dad, Lila’s cousin has a bunch of old dresses. I might borrow one.”He looked up. “Why, hon?”I blinked. “For prom.”