Afterward, I moved into Mark’s house with Emma and worked every job I could find to keep the mortgage paid and food on the table. I cleaned homes until my knees ached, babysat neighbor kids, and waited tables at a local diner until my feet swelled. Time passed like pages turning. I aged into my 70s with a back that ached every morning and more wrinkles than I could count.
But I still had my energy, and Emma grew into a beautiful young lady. She was kind and thoughtful. She never even asked for much, although I knew all her friends came from much better-off families. Still, she somehow made thrifted clothes seem up-to-date and told me she loved me constantly.
But I knew that all high school girls wanted to feel beautiful at one event: their senior prom. A few weeks before, I asked if she planned to go. She shook her head and said softly, ‘Grandma, don’t worry. I don’t need to go. We can’t afford a dress anyway. I already looked at Goodwill. Nothing will work.’ She tried to sound nonchalant, but I knew it hurt her, and I hated any time she had to go without.
Therefore, the next day, I found a nice soft blue satin fabric at a local vintage shop that wasn’t too expensive. And that night, after my shift at the diner, I dragged my old sewing machine to the kitchen table and began working on her gown. Emma saw this and protested, saying I already worked too much for her sake, but I wasn’t too tired to make her happy.
I poured love into every seam, working for days until my fingers cramped and my eyes watered. The night before prom, Emma tried on the finished dress in our narrow hallway, turning slowly in front of the mirror. The fabric caught the light just right, shimmering gently, and tears filled her eyes. ‘It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen,’ she whispered.
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