I felt disconnected from all of it.

Prom was supposed to be our moment—me walking down the stairs while Dad took way too many photos.

Without him, I didn’t even know what it meant anymore.

One evening I sat on the floor with a box of his belongings from the hospital: his wallet, the watch with the cracked glass, and at the bottom, folded the careful way he folded everything—his work shirts.

Blue ones. Gray ones. And a faded green one I remembered from years ago.

We used to joke that his closet contained nothing but shirts.

“A man who knows what he needs doesn’t need much else,” he’d say.

I held one of the shirts for a long time.

Then the idea came—sudden and clear.

If Dad couldn’t be at prom… I could bring him with me.

My aunt didn’t think I was crazy, which I appreciated.

“I barely know how to sew, Aunt Hilda,” I told her.

“I know,” she said. “I’ll teach you.”

That weekend we spread Dad’s shirts across the kitchen table. Her old sewing kit sat between us.

It took longer than we expected.

I cut the fabric wrong twice. One night I had to unpick an entire section and start again.

Aunt Hilda stayed beside me through all of it, guiding my hands and reminding me to slow down.

Some nights I cried quietly while I worked.

Other nights I talked to Dad out loud.

My aunt either didn’t hear or chose not to say anything.

Every piece of fabric carried a memory.

The shirt he wore on my first day of high school when he stood at the door and told me I’d be great even though I was terrified.

The faded green one from the afternoon he ran beside my bike longer than his knees appreciated.

The gray one he wore the day he hugged me after the worst day of junior year without asking a single question.

The dress became a collection of him. Every stitch held a memory.

The night before prom, I finished it.

I put it on and stood in front of my aunt’s hallway mirror.

It wasn’t a designer gown—not even close. But it was made from every color my father had ever worn. It fit perfectly, and for a moment it felt like he was standing beside me.

My aunt appeared in the doorway and stopped.

“Nicole… my brother would’ve loved this,” she said softly. “He would’ve absolutely lost his mind over it—in the best way. It’s beautiful.”

I smoothed the front of the dress with both hands.

For the first time since the hospital called, I didn’t feel empty.

I felt like Dad was still with me—woven into the fabric the same way he’d always been woven into every ordinary moment of my life.

Prom night finally arrived.