“I’m wearing it,” I said firmly. “Because my brother made it. And because it’s made from Mom’s jeans.”
Carla rolled her eyes. “Suit yourself. Just don’t embarrass this family more than you already have.”
She stormed out, but not before I caught her texting her friends with a smirk.
---
Prom night arrived.
When I stepped out of the car at the hotel ballroom, heads turned. The dress looked even more magical under the string lights and chandeliers. Noah walked beside me proudly, wearing a crisp white shirt with a navy tie and suspenders, carrying his little sewing kit just in case anything needed last-minute fixes. He looked so grown up.
Inside, the reaction was electric.
“Aisha… what is that dress?!” my best friend Maya squealed, rushing over. “It’s insane! Is that denim? It looks designer!”
Girls gathered around me, touching the fabric, asking who made it. When I told them my fifteen-year-old brother designed and sewed it entirely from our late mom’s jeans, the compliments turned into genuine awe. Phones came out. Pictures were taken. Someone even tagged a local fashion influencer.
Noah blushed deeply but smiled the biggest smile I’d seen since Dad died.
Then Carla arrived.
She had actually shown up, dressed in a tight black cocktail dress, phone already in hand, whispering to other parents near the entrance. I saw her pointing at me, laughing behind her hand.
But the moment I stepped onto the stage for the prom court announcement (I hadn’t even known I was nominated), the music stopped.
