**
For nearly a year, I worked on that dress whenever Janet wasn’t home. The garage became my secret workshop. I’d sneak out there late at night, the clack of my needles almost lost under the radio.
Sometimes she’d text:
“Tom, where’d you vanish to?”
And I’d write back, “Just tinkering. Be in soon.”
“Tom, where’d you vanish to?”
She noticed the red marks on my hands, but never pushed. “You and your projects,” she’d say, shaking her head.
I started over more times than I could count. Once I pricked my thumb and had to cut out a whole section. Anthony even caught me one afternoon and just laughed.
“Dad, are you knitting?”
“It’s a blanket,” I said.
“Weird flex,” he said, and left it at that.
**
Anthony even caught me one afternoon.
Truth was, every stitch felt like a lifeline. Janet had spent that year fighting through an illness I couldn’t fix. Some nights I’d find her curled on the couch, headscarf slipping, cheeks pale.
She’d look up and pat the cushion next to her.
“Come sit. You’re always on your feet, Tom.”
I’d sit, yarn hidden in my lap, heart pounding.
“Are you doing alright, my love?” I’d asked, trying to sound casual.
She’d nod. “Tired. But lucky.”
“You’re always on your feet, Tom.”
That soft ivory yarn became a record of all my hopes. I’d hold up a sleeve to the light, running my thumb over the little M, S, and A I’d hidden in the hem. Each detail was for her: lace from our old curtains, and wildflowers like her bouquet.
**
Two months before our anniversary, after one quiet dinner, I finally asked, “Would you marry me again?”
She blinked, then laughed. “Tom, after all we’ve done together? In a heartbeat.”
**
A few weeks later, she started looking online for something to wear. I watched her scroll through fancy websites, occasionally glancing at me with a question in her eyes.
That’s when I showed her the dress.
“Would you marry me again?”
I didn’t say anything at first. I just laid it across the bed, careful not to wrinkle it.
Janet ran her fingers over the lace pattern, her thumb pausing on the hem where our children’s initials hid.
“You made this?” she asked softly.
I nodded. “If you don’t like it, you don’t have to —”
She cut me off. “Tom. This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
I tried to play it off, but she pressed a hand to my cheek.
“Then that’s exactly what I’ll wear.”
“You made this?”
**
The ceremony was lovely, just us, the kids, a few close friends, and Janet’s best friend, Mary, on the piano. Sue read a poem with shaking hands.
“Mom, Dad, you taught us what love looks like. Even on the hard days.”
Janet caught my eye as the sunlight hit her dress. You did this, she mouthed, and for a second, I could barely breathe.
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