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From that night on, my sewing machine became the centerpiece of our humble house. Every evening after dinner, I’d settle into my chair with pristine white fabric spread across my lap and get to work.
My hands weren’t as steady as they used to be. My eyes needed more light than before. But every stitch carried 20 years of love, and every seam held memories of a little girl who’d lost everything and somehow found joy, anyway.
Emily would visit on weekends, bringing groceries and staying to watch me work.
“Tell me what you’re doing now,” she’d say, perched on the ottoman beside me.
“See this lace?” I held up the delicate fabric. “I’m making the sleeves. They’ll be fitted here, then bell out at the wrist. Like something from a fairy tale.”
Her eyes lit up. “Really?”
“Really! You deserve to feel like a princess on your wedding day.”
She leaned her head on my shoulder. “I already feel special, Grandma. Because of you.”
I had to stop sewing for a moment and wipe my eyes.
The dress took shape slowly, with ivory satin that flowed like water and delicate lace sleeves that looked like spider silk. Tiny pearls I’d been saving in a box for 40 years finally found their purpose along the bodice.
When Emily tried it on for the first fitting, she stood in front of my bedroom mirror and gasped.
“Grandma,” she breathed, turning to see the back. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
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