I blinked. “For prom.”
He kept watching me, and I knew he had heard the part I hadn’t said out loud: “I know we can’t afford one.”
“Dad, it’s fine,” I said. “I really don’t care that much.”
“I know we can’t afford one.”
That was a lie, and we both knew it.
He folded one bill in half and set it down. “Leave the dress to me.”
I snorted. “That’s an insane sentence coming from a man who owns three identical work shirts.”
He pointed toward the sink. “Finish those dishes before I start charging you rent, Syd.”
That should have been the end of it, but after that, I started noticing things.
The hall closet stayed closed.
“Leave the dress to me.”
Dad came home with brown paper packages and tucked them under his arm when he saw me.
At night, long after I went to bed, I heard the low hum of the sewing machine from the living room.
The first time I heard it, I padded out in my socks and stood in the hallway.
My father was bent over a spill of ivory fabric under the lamp. He had reading glasses low on his nose and his mouth pulled tight in concentration. One thick hand held the cloth steady while the other guided it through the machine with a care I’d only ever seen him use on old photographs.
I leaned against the wall. “Since when do you sew?”
He jumped so hard he nearly jabbed himself with the needle.
Dad came home with brown paper packages.
