“What are you doing?” I asked.
She swallowed.
Then she whispered, “What if he could still take me?”
My heart broke.
She touched the uniform.
“I could make a dress from it.”
So we did.
For two months, our dining room became a sewing room. Navy fabric covered the chairs. Silver thread covered the table. Every stitch became a memory.
Then Wren brought out a small badge.
It wasn’t Matt’s official badge. That had been returned after his death.
This one was something he had made for her when she was three.
He had written his patrol number on it and handed it to her with a grin.
“You’re my partner,” he had told her.
Wren wanted that badge over her heart.
On prom night, she came downstairs wearing the finished dress.
