“No.”
He pointed at the needles.
“You’re literally holding knitting needles.”
I cleared my throat.
“It’s a blanket.”
He laughed.
“Okay, Dad. Whatever you say.”
Then he walked away.
The truth was, that dress wasn’t really about fashion.
It was about Janet.
That year had been difficult.
She’d been battling a serious illness, and there were nights when I felt completely helpless.
I’d sit beside her on the couch while she rested beneath a blanket.
Sometimes she was so tired she could barely speak.
She’d pat the cushion beside her.
“Come sit with me, Tom.”
I’d sit down.
Sometimes the unfinished dress was hidden beneath another blanket on my lap.
I’d look at her and wonder how I could possibly explain what she meant to me.
So I put it into every stitch.
The lace pattern came from the curtains in our first apartment.
The wildflower designs were inspired by the bouquet she’d carried on our wedding day.
And inside the hem, I stitched three tiny initials.
M.
S.
A.
Our children.
A year of our family, sewn into a dress.
Two months before our anniversary, I finally asked her the question.
“Would you marry me again?”
She looked at me.
Then she laughed.
“Tom, after everything we’ve been through?”
