The world fell silent when my father passed away last spring.
Everything in my life felt stable and secure because of him. The cheesy jokes that made me sigh but smile within, the morning pancakes with excessive amounts of syrup, and the “you can do anything, sweetheart” motivational speeches that preceded each test and tryout.
After Mom passed away from cancer when I was just eight years old, it had been just me and him for about a decade, until dad married Carla.
My stepmom, Carla, was a walking ice storm. She maintained flawlessly manicured nails like tiny knives, wore pricey brand perfume that smelled like chilly flowers, and provided phony smiles.
When Dad died abruptly from a heart attack, she didn’t drop a single tear at the hospital. Not one.
“You’re embarrassing yourself in front of everyone,” she whispered in my ear as I was so shaken during the burial that I could hardly stand at the graveyard. Quit crying so much. He is no longer there. It happens to everyone eventually.
I wanted to yell at her at that moment. I wanted to let her know that she would never be able to comprehend the suffering I was going through. However, I was unable to talk since my throat was so dry.
She began cleaning out his closet two weeks after we buried him, as if she were getting rid of proof of a crime.
She added, “There’s no point in keeping all this junk around,” and without even glancing at his cherished ties, she tossed them into a black garbage bag.
My heart thumping in my chest, I hurried into the room. “Carla, they’re not garbage. He owns them. Don’t throw them out, please.”
She gave a dramatic roll of her eyes. “He’s not coming back for them, darling. You must mature and accept reality.”
I saved the bag and hid it in my closet as she went out to answer the phone. Each tie still had a little of his aftershave, that old cedar perfume, and the cheap cologne he had purchased at the drugstore.
I refused to allow her to discard my dad’s possessions as though they were completely unimportant.
In all honesty, I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to attend to prom, which was in six weeks. Every morning, grief weighed heavily on my chest. However, I had a thought that made my heart skip a beat late one evening while I was rummaging through the bag of ties.
Even on casual Fridays when no one else at his job cared, Dad had always worn ties. His collection featured polka dots, stripes, crazy hues, and silly patterns.
After looking at all those trends, I made the decision to make something unique that would enable him to join me on one of the most memorable evenings of my high school career.
I therefore taught myself how to sew. I watched YouTube tutorials until three in the morning, practiced stitches on old fabric scraps, and slowly, meticulously sewed his ties together into a beautiful, flowing skirt.
Each tie carried a specific memory that made my chest ache. The one with the paisley was from my 12-year-old self’s big job interview. When I had a solo at my middle school recital, he wore the navy blue. The goofy one with the tiny guitars on top? Every Christmas morning as he made his renowned cinnamon buns, he wore it.
It glistened in the light when I eventually completed and put it on for the first time when I was standing in front of my bedroom mirror.
Because of the somewhat uneven hem and slightly misaligned seams, it wasn’t flawless by any professional standard. But in some way, it felt alive, like if every thread was infused with Dad’s warmth.
I muttered to my reflection, “He’d love this,” as I touched the silky fabric.
Carla was passing by my open bedroom door as I was staring at my image in the mirror. She paused, looked in, and let out a loud snort.
“You’re seriously wearing that to prom?” she questioned, rolling her eyes. “It looks like a craft project from a thrift store bargain bin.”
I turned back to the mirror, ignoring her.
“Always playing Daddy’s little orphan for sympathy,” she said under her breath, barely loud enough for me to hear, when she passed my room again later that evening.
I was struck hard by the words.
I just sat quietly in my room for a while.
Did she actually see me like that? I pondered. A pitiful girl holding on to memories that everyone else believed I ought to have moved on from by now? Was it immoral of me to continue clinging to him in this way?
The skirt that was on my bed caught my attention.
No, I reminded myself, despite the pain in my chest. This has nothing to do with pity. This has to do with love. about recalling.
Her voice continued to reverberate in my mind, though, and I began to wonder if I was the only one who still cared enough to remember him in this way or if perhaps grief had rendered me stupid.
I made sure the skirt wouldn’t wrinkle by carefully hanging it on my closet door the night before prom. I took a step back and stared at it for a while, picturing Dad grinning proudly. After that, I dreamed about dancing beneath sparkling lights as I went to bed.
Something seemed off the moment I woke up the following morning. The apartment had a distinct scent, as if Carla’s potent perfume had intruded into my personal space. Before I had even completely opened my eyes, my heart began to race.
The skirt was on the floor and the closet door was ajar.
The worst thing, though, was that it wasn’t limited to the floor. It was ripped to pieces. The knots were all over my carpet, and the seams had been pulled open with violence. Some of the ties had real scissor cuts through them, and threads hung from the fabric like sliced veins.
My eyes were unbelievable.
“CARLAA!!!” I let out a scream. “CARLAAAA!!!”
Shortly after, Carla showed up in my doorway, holding her morning coffee casually as if it were any other Saturday.
After taking a leisurely sip, she questioned, “What on earth are you yelling about?”
“You did this!” I shouted, pointing at the ruined skirt with a shaky hand. “You ruined it! “How dare you!”
With her icy eyes, she looked down at the torn cloth and then back at me. “If you mean your little costume project, I saw it laying there when I walked in to use your phone charger. You really ought to thank me, Emma. That thing was simply ugly. I prevented you from being humiliated in public.”
I couldn’t even move. My entire body felt frozen, and unshed tears burned in my throat.
“You destroyed the last thing I had of Dad’s,” I muttered, my voice breaking.
As though she had just made a remark about the weather, she shrugged. “Oh, please. He is no longer alive. A pile of old neckties isn’t going to bring him back from the grave. Emma, be sensible. Please.”
I sank to my knees, grabbing the ripped bits in my arms, shivering so violently I thought I may be sick.
“You’re a monster,” I remarked as I raised my gaze to her.
“And you’re dramatic,” she said calmly in response. “To get some stuff, I’m heading to the store. While I’m away, try not to sob into the carpet. It’s brand-new.”
The scream reverberated throughout the deserted house when the front door slammed behind her.
I can’t recall how long I sat there, crying and clutching the fragments of my father’s necktie on the floor of my bedroom. I texted my best friend Mallory when I finally managed to find my phone through my tears. I figured she would understand that she was getting her prom nails done at the mall.
She and her mother, Ruth, a retired seamstress who had sewn Mallory’s dress, arrived at my front door in less than twenty minutes. Without a single query, they started working as soon as they saw the debris strewn all over my floor.
Ruth firmly stated, “We’ll fix it, sweetheart,” while threading a needle. “Your father will still accompany you on your prom walk this evening. I swear to you.”
Throughout the afternoon, they meticulously stitched by hand, strengthening each and every seam. When I started crying again, Mallory was sitting next to me and holding my hand. With lightning-fast and accurate fingers, Ruth worked with amazing skill.
The skirt didn’t appear like my initial design when they were done, which was approximately 4 p.m. It was now shorter, with layered areas where the broken bits had to be worked around. A few of the knots had been moved. There were obvious repair sutures in some spots, and it was flawed.
However, it was strangely even more lovely than before. It seems to have battled back, to have survived something.
“Mallory’s eyes were bright as she smiled at me. He literally seems to have your back. As if he battled to join you this evening.”
I started crying again, but this time my emotions were motivated by thankfulness and a sense of less loneliness.
I was prepared at 6 p.m. The skirt shone in my bedroom light as I stood in front of my mirror once more. The sunlight were caught like fragments of stained glass by blues, reds, and golds. As a finishing touch, I delicately pinned one of Dad’s vintage cufflinks to the waistline.
When I came downstairs, Carla was in the living room, aimlessly browsing through her phone. Her gaze became sour, as if she had bitten into something horrible, when she looked up and saw me standing there in the repaired skirt.
“You fixed that item, really?” With a tone full of distaste, she questioned, “You’re really still wearing it?”
“Yes,” I replied, raising my head.
“Well,” she said sarcastically, getting up to inspect more closely, “don’t expect me to take any photos of you looking like a circus tent.” I refuse to share that humiliation on social media.
“I didn’t ask you to,” was my straightforward response.
I picked up my little purse and left without turning around as Mallory’s parents honked from the curb outside. Carla’s consent wasn’t necessary. Something far more significant was in my possession.
I didn’t realize how much I needed prom. As soon as I entered the adorned gym, people’s attention was drawn to the skirt because it was very striking.
Throughout the night, people approached me to inquire about it. I proudly stated the same thing every time: “It’s made from my late dad’s ties.” This spring, he died.
When teachers heard my story, they started crying. I was so tightly gripped by my buddies that I was having trouble breathing. As I passed by, I heard a whisper from someone I hardly knew: “That’s the sweetest, most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”
I laughed till my cheeks hurt, danced until my feet hurt, and shed a few tears of joy. I felt truly light for the first time since Dad passed away, as if a burden had been removed from my chest.
Our principle, Mrs. Henderson, distributed special ribbons for various categories at the conclusion of the evening. I went up to the stage when she called me for “Most Unique Attire.” “Your father would be so incredibly proud of you, Emma,” she added gently, so only I could hear, as she fastened the ribbon on my skirt.
However, this is not where the narrative ends.
Around 11:30 p.m., when Mallory’s mother dropped me off at home, the house was illuminated like a murder scene.
The neighbor’s trees and our windows were illuminated by red and blue police lights. I felt sick to my stomach as I froze on the pavement.
At our front door appeared an officer in uniform. I had never seen Carla before, and she was in the doorway, looking pale and trembling.
“What’s going on?” As I moved gently in the direction of the home, I whispered.
With a solemn attitude, the officer turned to face me. “You live here, miss?”
“Yes, sir. Is there a problem? Is there a person injured?”
He gave a sad nod. “Carla has our support. She is being detained on several counts of identity theft and insurance fraud. A warrant is in our possession.”
In fact, my mouth fell open. Unable to comprehend what I was hearing, I looked at Carla.
With a shrill, frantic voice, Carla muttered, “That’s just absurd! You can’t simply arrive and—”
After an internal audit, the officer firmly interrupted, “Ma’am,” saying, “your employer filed the complaint this morning.” For months, you have been submitting fraudulent medical claims using your late husband’s identity and Social Security number, as we have proved.”
Her frantic, desperate gaze flew to mine. “You! This was set up by you! You made up lies when you phoned them.”
I was honest when I said, “I don’t even know what this is about,” “Why would I set this up?”
She yelled, “Liar!” as a second cop with handcuffs stepped behind her. “You vindictive little brat!”
Now, neighbors were huddled on their porches, pointing and muttering. In order to gather Carla’s phone and pocketbook as evidence, another officer entered our home.
She turned to face me as they brought her in handcuffs down the front steps, her eyes burning with utter anger. “You’ll be sorry! You’ll regret it.”
The first cop stopped, glanced at me in my tie skirt, and then turned back to Carla. “Ma’am, I think you’ve got enough regrets to worry about tonight.”
They led her into the police car’s rear. There was a loud thunk as the door closed, echoing down our peaceful neighborhood.
After they left, the only sounds for a while were the distant buzz of traffic and the chirping of crickets. The tie-skirt swayed gently about my legs in the night breeze as I stood in the doorway, gazing out at the deserted street.
It’s been three months since that night.
Prosecutors have shown proof of more than $40,000 in false claims in Carla’s ongoing legal battle. The judge seemed weary of the delays, despite her attorney’s repeated requests for continuances.
My grandmother, Dad’s mother, who I hadn’t seen much since the wedding, moved in with me in the interim. She brought three suitcases and her cat, Buttons, two days after Carla was arrested.
She embraced me and whispered, “I should have been here sooner,” with a homey and lavender scent. “Your father would have wanted us together.”
The house feels alive once more now. She preserves Dad’s photo on the mantel, makes his meals, and relates anecdotes about him as a youngster.
- I Threw A Surprise Party For My Husband—But When He Walked In, The Room Went Silent
- He Announced His Mistress At Our 30th Anniversary—He Never Expected I Would Beat Him To The Exit
- My Stepmom Used My Late Mom’s $25k Inheritance To Buy Her Son A Jeep — She Got Exactly What She Deserved
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