That night, after work and after checking on my mom, I spread muslin over my tiny kitchen table and started drafting patterns.
I bought fabric, lace, boning, zippers—charging more than I was comfortable with to my nearly maxed out card.
“It’s fine,” I told myself. “She’ll pay me back when it’s done.”
For the next month, my life turned into work, Mom, wedding dress, sleep, repeat.
I’d finish my shift at the salon, smile at brides who’d never remember my name, then drag myself home and pin lace until my fingers ached.
Sophie would text things like, “How’s my baby?” with heart emojis and send me TikToks of dramatic veil flips.
Every fitting, she gushed. “Oh my God, Claire, this is perfect!”
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