That’s when she laughed.
Not a real laugh. One of those small, sharp ones meant to cut.
“That money keeps this house running now,” she said. “And honestly? No one wants to see you prancing around in some overpriced princess costume.”
Then she tossed her brand-new designer handbag onto the counter.
The tag was still hanging from it.
I stared at it.
“So there’s money for that?” I asked.
Her chair scraped across the floor when she stood up.
“Watch your tone.”
“You’re using our money.”
Her voice went cold.
“I’m keeping this family afloat. You have no idea what things cost.”
“Then why did Dad say it was ours?”
She shrugged.
“Your father was bad with money. And bad with boundaries.”
I went upstairs and cried into my pillow like I was twelve again.
I heard Noah outside my door but he didn’t come in.
He’s always been quiet like that.
Two nights later he knocked on my door holding a stack of old denim.
Mom’s jeans.
She used to collect them.
He dropped them on my bed and said, “Do you trust me?”
I looked at him. “With what?”
“I took sewing last year. Remember?”
I blinked.
“You can make a dress?”
He hesitated. “I can try.”
I grabbed his arm immediately.
“No. I love the idea.”
For the next two weeks our kitchen turned into a workshop.
We worked when Carla was out or locked in her room.
Noah pulled Mom’s old sewing machine out of the laundry closet and set it on the kitchen table.
The dress slowly came together piece by piece.
Different shades of blue denim layered and stitched together.
Pockets. Seams. Faded patches.
It looked like pieces of Mom’s life sewn into one dress.
When Noah finished it, he hung it on my door.
I touched the fabric and whispered, “You made this.”
He just shrugged.
But he was smiling.
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