The first night I tried to stitch the dress, my hands trembled. The needle slipped and pierced my thumb. I swallowed the cry, wiped the blood on an old rag, and kept going, careful not to let a single drop touch the olive fabric. That fabric wasn’t just cloth—it “still smelled faintly like him, a faint trace of aftershave and warmth that hadn’t faded.” If Camila or her daughters caught me with it, laughter and cruel comments would follow.

So, I worked in silence. Each cut of the scissors, each pull of thread, felt less like sewing and more like holding myself together. Some nights, I pressed the jacket to my face, remembering how he guided my hands at the sewing machine—“patient, steady, as if nothing could go wrong as long as he was there.” After he married Camila, everything shifted. Her warmth appeared only when he was present, and the house felt theirs.

I’d stand in his old room, clutching the jacket, whispering into silence. I told myself he could still hear me, and somehow, I almost imagined him answering: “Wear it like you mean it, Chels.” That’s when the idea came—not just to wear the uniform, but to transform it. I wanted to take what he left behind and turn it into something that belonged to me. Weeks of secret sewing followed, late nights under a dim lamp, hiding every piece of fabric when footsteps approached.

Three nights before prom, I nearly gave up—fingers aching, a drop of blood on the seam—but when I slipped the dress on and looked in the mirror, I didn’t see the girl they ignored. I saw him. I saw me. I saw something whole.

On prom night, their laughter greeted me, expecting mockery. I held my head high. Then came the doorbell. A military officer delivered my father’s instructions: the house had “always been mine.” That night, I danced freely, finally stepping into something that truly belonged to me.