He shrugged. “War asks different things of different men.”
I laughed, but something in my chest tightened with warmth.
At school, however, things weren’t as gentle. My English teacher, Mrs. Tilmot, had a unique talent for cutting people down without raising her voice.
“Sydney, do try to stay awake.” “That essay reads like a greeting card.” “Oh, you’re upset? How exhausting.”
I told myself it didn’t matter, that I didn’t care. But my dad saw right through my defenses. One night, he found me rewriting an essay for the third time.
“Was it lazy?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then stop doing extra work for someone who enjoys watching you bleed.”
“I don’t know why she hates me,” I admitted.
“It doesn’t matter why,” he said softly. “It matters that you don’t let it define you.”
A week before prom, he knocked on my door holding a garment bag. “Before you react,” he said, “know two things. It’s not perfect. And the zipper and I are no longer friends.”
My heart was already racing. He unzipped the bag, and everything stopped.
The dress was ivory, soft and glowing, with delicate blue flowers hand-stitched across the bodice. It looked like something pulled out of another era—elegant, timeless, and completely alive.
“Dad…” I whispered.
“Your mom’s wedding gown had good bones,” he said quietly. “I just… adjusted it.”
I covered my mouth, tears instantly spilling over. “You made this… from Mom’s dress?”
