I looked down at Lily’s dress.
The careful stitching.
The little bow.
The neatly sewn hem.
I remembered Nora working late one evening with fabric spread across our kitchen table.
She had told me she was making something special.
After she died, I found the dress in a sealed garment bag among her belongings.
I’d saved it until Lily was old enough to wear it.
That morning, when Lily chose the dress, I had told her Mommy made it.
But I hadn’t known about the photograph.
Or the letter.
Grandma touched the fabric gently.
“Nora asked me to give Lily the bracelet and the letter when she turned seven. I think tonight is the right time.”
Lily looked down at herself.
“Mommy made my dress.”
“Yes, sweetheart.”
She stroked the fabric with her little fingers.
Then she smiled.
“That’s why it’s my favorite.”
And suddenly, the entire evening felt overwhelming.
