The first night I tried to stitch the dress, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The needle slipped, piercing my thumb. I swallowed the cry, wiped the blood on an old rag, and pressed on—careful not to let a single drop touch the olive fabric spread across my quilt. It wasn’t just cloth. It still carried his scent—aftershave, metal, something warm and familiar that hadn’t yet faded.
If Camila or her daughters ever caught me with it, I knew what would follow: laughter first, then the kind of comments that linger long after. So I worked in silence.
Every cut of the scissors, every pull of thread felt less like sewing and more like holding myself together. Some nights I pressed his jacket to my face, breathing him in, remembering how he once guided my hands at the sewing machine—steady, patient, as if nothing could go wrong while he was there.
But after he married Camila, everything shifted. Her kindness appeared only when he was watching. The moment he left for duty, the warmth drained from the house. My chores doubled. Laundry piled outside my door like quiet demands. Lia and Jen moved through the rooms as if they already owned them.
