“All my friends are wearing dresses from that boutique downtown,” I admitted. “Chloe ordered hers from some designer in the city.”
“And what do you want to wear?”
“Oh, my girl. Look at you.”
I met her eyes in the reflection.
“This one. I want to wear this one.”
Grandma Evelyn pressed her hand against her heart.
For a long moment, she could not speak.
“I started this dress the week after my diagnosis,” she finally said. “Every stitch was a prayer. Every seam was a promise.”
“Every stitch was a prayer.”
“A promise for what?”
“That you would always know how loved you are. Even after I’m gone.”
I turned and hugged her carefully.
She felt smaller than she used to, but her arms still held me like nothing in the world could hurt me.
“I have something to tell you about this fabric someday,” she whispered into my hair. “It has a story. A good one.”
