The blue one he wore on my first day of high school when he hugged me at the door.
The faded green one from the day he ran beside my bike while I learned to ride.
The gray one from the afternoon he hugged me after the worst day of junior year without asking a single question.
By the time I finished, the dress felt like a collection of moments.
The night before prom, I finally put it on.
It wasn’t fancy.
It wasn’t designer.
But it was stitched from every color my dad had ever worn.
My aunt stood in the doorway and wiped her eyes.
“Emma… your father would’ve loved this,” she said quietly.
For the first time since he died, I didn’t feel empty.
I felt like he was still with me.
Prom night arrived.
The gymnasium was glowing with lights and music when I walked in. I had barely taken ten steps before the whispering began.
A girl near the entrance said loudly, “Is that dress made out of the janitor’s old clothes?”
A boy laughed beside her. “Guess that’s what you wear when you can’t afford a real one.”
Laughter spread through the crowd.
My face burned.
“I made this from my dad’s shirts,” I said, my voice shaking. “He passed away a few months ago, and this is how I wanted to honor him.”