My stepmother came to my graduation using an exact copy of the last dress my mother sewed to me before she died… but I didn’t know what would appear on the kara screen

the love with which it had been created.

I took the letter to my chest.

I didn’t care anymore that Shirley carried a copy.

I looked at our dresses.

They were almost identical.

But for the first time that night I understood the difference.

His had been commissioned to compete with me.

Mine had been sewn by a sick woman who knew she probably would never see me use it.

Every stitch had cost effort.

Time.

Pain.

And love.

Shirley could copy the fabric.

I could copy the color.

I could copy every inch of the design.

But I could never copy that.

My father finally came over.

“Daughter…

I looked at him.

I was crying.

I should have stopped this.

I didn’t respond immediately.

Because he was right.

Weeks later, my father and Shirley separated.

But that was no longer the most important part for me.

The important part happened that same night.