Two weeks later she began “clearing clutter,” tossing his suits, shoes, and even the ties he wore for big meetings and Christmas mornings. While she wasn’t looking, I rescued the bag and hid it in my room. Those ties still held his scent, a last piece of him I couldn’t let go.
Prom approached, and one night, sitting with that bag of silk, an idea sparked. If he couldn’t be there, I would bring him with me. I taught myself to sew through late nights and pricked fingers, stitching his ties into a skirt. Each pattern held a memory, and when I zipped it up, it felt like sunlight on my shoulders.
Carla saw it and sneered. By the next morning, she had slashed it apart. I crumpled to the floor, gathering the ruined pieces. “You destroyed the last thing I had of him.” She only shrugged and walked away.