I went upstairs and tried not to cry.
But Noah heard everything.
He’s fifteen.
Last year he took a sewing class.
The boys b:ullied him for it.
He never talked about it again.
Until one evening he showed up carrying several pairs of Mom’s old jeans.
“You trust me?” he asked.
For the next two weeks, our kitchen became his workshop.
The dress he created was amazing.
Different shades of blue stitched together like pieces of Mom’s story.
Carla saw it on prom day and laughed loudly.
“That’s the most PATHETIC thing I’ve ever seen. If you wear it, the whole school will laugh.”
