The first stitch my mother ever taught me was simple. “Needles remember gentle hands,” she used to say whenever I tugged the thread too hard. “If you force them, they’ll fight back.” I never understood what she meant until years later, standing alone in my bedroom with tears running down my face while holding the last thing she had ever made for me.

at the window where sunlight spilled across the fabric.

“Remember that love survives longer than people.”

Those words stayed with me.

Especially eight days later.

Eight days after the final flower was sewn.

Eight days after she tucked the dress into its garment bag.

Eight days after she whispered one final promise she wanted from me.

“When you wear it…”

“I continue reading …