That worried me even more.
Over the next few weeks, Grandpa began coming home later.
Sometimes after 10.
Other nights, nearly 11.
I assumed he had taken extra work to buy me something.
Then I started noticing strange things.
Pink thread stuck to his sleeves.
There were tiny cuts on his fingers.
Once, pale fabric was sticking out of his jacket pocket.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Working.”
“Cars don’t usually involve pink thread.”
He glanced at his sleeve and plucked off the thread.
“Very fancy car.”
I laughed, but the guilt stayed.
One evening, I stopped him before he left again.
“Grandpa, please don’t work yourself sick because of prom.”
He softened.
“Emily, I’m fine.”
“I don’t need an expensive dress.”
“I know.”
“Then stop.”
He kissed my forehead.
“Trust me.”
What I didn’t know was that Grandpa had borrowed one of my fitted dresses while I was at school and used it as a size guide.
The auto shop also had an old industrial sewing machine stored in the back. The owner’s mother had once used it for alterations and upholstery, and she’d left behind patterns, sewing tools, and books.
Grandpa asked if he could use them.
Night after night, he stayed late after work watching tutorials, practicing on scrap fabric, tearing out bad seams, and starting over.
A month later, he called me into the living room.
A garment bag hung from the closet door.
“What’s that?”
He smiled.
“Open it.”
Inside was a soft pink dress with silver stitching along the bodice and tiny beads that caught the light.
The stitching wasn’t perfect.
Some lines were slightly uneven.
But I had never seen anything more beautiful.
“Where did you get this?”
Grandpa grinned.
“I made it.”
I stared at him.
“You made this?”
“Eventually.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means several pieces of fabric at the shop died for this dress.”
I laughed.
He explained everything—the machine, the old patterns, the tutorials, and the dress he’d borrowed from my closet for sizing.
“You went through my closet?”
