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When my dad died last spring, the world went silent in a way that hurt. He was the steady in every storm—the too-sweet pancakes, the groan-worthy jokes, the pep talks that always ended with, “You can do anything, sweetheart.” After Mom died when I was eight, it was just the two of us for nearly a decade—until he married Carla.
Carla moved through rooms like an ice draft. Perfume like cold flowers. Smiles that never touched her eyes. Nails filed into neat little points. When Dad’s heart gave out, I didn’t see a single tear at the hospital. At the funeral, when my knees went weak at the graveside, she leaned in and whispered, “You’re embarrassing yourself. He’s gone. It happens to everyone.” I couldn’t even answer. Grief had turned my throat to sand.
Two weeks later she began “clearing out clutter” like she was scrubbing a crime scene. Suits. Shoes. And then a trash bag that swallowed his ties—wild paisleys, ridiculous guitar prints, stripes he wore on “big meeting” days. “He’s not coming back for them,” she said, dropping them into black plastic. I waited for her phone to ring, then dragged the bag to my closet. Every silk strip smelled faintly of cedar and his cheap drugstore cologne. I couldn’t let them go.
Prom hovered on the calendar like a dare I didn’t want to take. One night, sitting on the floor with that bag of ties, a thread of an idea pulled taut. If he couldn’t be there, I could bring him with me. I taught myself to sew—midnight YouTube, crooked practice seams, pricked fingers—and stitched those ties into a skirt, each piece a memory: the paisley from his big interview; the navy from my middle school solo; the silly guitars he wore every Christmas while burning cinnamon rolls and pretending that was part of the recipe. When I zipped it up, the silk caught the light and felt warm, like standing in sunshine with his arm around my shoulder.
Carla paused in my doorway, took one look, and actually snorted. “You’re wearing that? It looks like a craft project from a bargain bin.” As she walked away she added, not quietly, “Always milking the orphan act, aren’t we?” The words slid under my skin and stung. I put the skirt on a hanger and told myself—out loud—that love wasn’t a plea for pity. It was a promise.
The next morning, I woke to the smell of her perfume. My closet door gaped. The skirt lay on the floor, gutted. Seams ripped open. Threads trailing like veins. Some ties slashed through with scissors. I called her name, voice cracking. She drifted in with coffee and a bored look. “Hideous, Emma. I did you a favor. Be realistic.”
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