It was that night I decided I’d wear his uniform to prom. Not the way it was, but transformed, something new built from what he left behind. It felt like a secret between us.
For weeks, I worked in silence.
After scrubbing the kitchen floor and folding Jen’s endless stacks of shirts, I’d retreat to my room and stitch under my desk lamp.
Sometimes, in the quiet, I’d whisper goodnight to Dad.
I decided I’d wear his uniform to prom.
One Saturday afternoon, I was hunched over my desk, thread in my mouth and Dad’s jacket spread out in front of me, when my door flew open.
Jen barged in without so much as a knock, arms overflowing with pastel dresses and tangled straps.
I startled, yanking the blanket over my project so fast I nearly sent the sewing box flying.
“Careful, Jen!”
She cocked an eyebrow, peering at the lumpy shape beneath the blanket. “What are you hiding, Cinderella?” Her lips curled in a smirk as she dropped the armful of dresses right onto my feet.
“What are you hiding, Cinderella?”
“Nothing,” I said, forcing a yawn and glancing at my open math book. “Just homework.”
She snorted. “Yeah, right. Whatever.” She dug out a wrinkled mint dress and shoved it at me. “Lia needs this steamed by tonight. And don’t burn anything, she’ll freak.”
“Got it.”
Jen’s gaze lingered on the covered project, but then she shrugged and left. When her footsteps faded, I pulled back the blanket and smiled at the stitches. Dad would’ve called it “stealth sewing.”
“Lia needs this steamed by tonight.”
***
Three nights before prom, I stuck myself with the needle again, hard. A bead of blood welled up on my finger, staining the inside hem.
For a moment, staring at the crooked seams, I thought about giving up.
But I didn’t.
When I slipped the finished dress on and faced the mirror, I didn’t see a maid or a shadow.
I saw my dad’s jacket, my stitches, my story.
I thought about giving up.
***
The night of prom, the whole house was in chaos. Camila was already in the kitchen, sipping her second cup of coffee, tapping her nails against her mug like a metronome. She didn’t even look up when I walked by.
“Chelsea, did you iron Lia’s dress?” she barked, eyes still on her phone.
“Yes, ma’am,” I answered quietly, folding dish towels.
I could smell burnt toast and Lia’s perfume battling in the air.
Lia breezed in, waving her phone and holding her sparkling clutch. “Jen, where’s my lip gloss? The gold one. You promised not to touch it!” Her voice echoed down the hallway.
She didn’t even look up when I walked by.
Jen came stomping out in her heels, every step a threat to the tiles. “I didn’t take your stupid lip gloss. Why do you always blame me?”
“Because you always do! Mom, tell her —”
Camila cut in, “Both of you, enough. Chelsea, did you clean up the living room? There are crumbs everywhere.”
“I did it after breakfast,” I said, wishing I could disappear.
***
Upstairs, I slipped into my room and shut the door.
“Both of you, enough.”
