That night, after my shift at the diner, I dragged my old sewing machine to the kitchen table and began working on her gown.

When Emma saw this, she protested, saying I already worked too much for her sake—but I wasn’t too tired to make her happy.

I poured love into every seam, working for days until my fingers cramped and my eyes watered.

The night before prom, Emma tried on the finished dress in our narrow hallway, turning slowly in front of the mirror.

The fabric caught the light just right, shimmering gently, and tears filled her eyes.

“It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen,” she whispered. “Thank—”

At that exact moment, a sharp knock rattled our front door.

I opened it—and froze.

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