She paused, her voice tightening.
After the wedding, life got harder.
Bills piled up. Rent fell behind.
And when she had a baby, she made choices she still carried in her bones.
One of those choices was selling that dress.
Folded carefully. Placed on a rack at a garage sale.
She told herself it was just fabric.
But it wasn’t.
“That dress was a part of my mother,” she said, voice trembling now.
“A part of her hands. Her love.”
She said she searched for it for years.
Thrift stores. Flea markets. Ads.
Chasing shadows.
Then she looked at me.
Not through me.
At me.
“And today,” she said, “I saw it.”
“My mother’s stitches.”
“That dress.”
A gasp rippled through the room.
Aunt Tracy stared at her lap like it could swallow her.
Thomas looked stunned.
And I stood there trying to understand how reality had flipped so fast.
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