"Nicole, my brother would've loved this," she said, sniffling. "He would've absolutely lost his mind over it… in the best way. It's beautiful, sweetie."
It was sewn from every color my father had ever worn.
I smoothed the front of it with both hands.
For the first time since the hospital called, I didn't feel like something was missing. I felt like Dad was right there, just folded into the fabric the same way he'd always been folded into everything ordinary in my life.
***
The long-awaited prom night finally arrived.
The venue glowed with dim lights and loud music, buzzing with the charged energy of a night everyone had been planning for months.
I walked in wearing my dress, and the prickling whispering started before I'd made it 10 steps through the door.
I felt like Dad was right there, just folded into the fabric.
A girl near the front said it loud enough for the whole section to hear: "Is that dress made from our janitor's rags?!"
A boy next to her laughed. "Is that what you wear when you can't afford a real dress?"
The laughter rippled outward. Students near me shifted away, creating that specific, small, cruel gap that forms around someone a crowd has decided to be amused by.
My face went hot. "I made this dress from my dad's old shirts," I blurted. "He passed away a few months ago, and this was my way of honoring him. So maybe it's not your place to mock something you know nothing about."
"Is that dress made from our janitor's rags?!"
For a second, no one said anything.
Then another girl rolled her eyes and laughed. "Relax! Nobody asked for the sob story!"
