The shirt he wore on my first day of high school.
The one from the day he ran beside my bike until his knees gave out.
The one he had on when he hugged me after my worst day junior year—without asking a single question.
By the time it was done, the dress wasn’t just fabric.
It was him.
The night before prom, I tried it on.
It wasn’t glamorous. Not designer.
But it fit perfectly.
And for the first time since he died… I didn’t feel alone.
My aunt stood in the doorway, eyes shining.
“He would’ve loved this,” she whispered. “He would’ve been so proud.”
For the first time in months, I believed that.
Prom night came.
The room was glowing with lights, music, and excitement.
The whispers started the moment I walked in.
“Is that made from janitor uniforms?”
“Guess that’s what you wear when you can’t afford a real dress.”
Laughter spread quickly.
That familiar kind of cruelty.
My face burned.
“I made this from my dad’s shirts,” I said, steadying my voice. “He passed away. This is how I honor him.”
For a second, silence.
Then someone scoffed. “No one asked.”
Just like that, I was eleven again.
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