Carla moved through the house like a cold draft: perfume sharp as winter flowers, smiles that never quite reached her eyes, and nails shaped into perfect little points. At the hospital, when Dad’s heart failed, I didn’t see her shed a single tear. At the funeral, when my knees gave out at the graveside, she leaned close and whispered, “You’re embarrassing yourself. He’s gone. It happens to everyone.”
I couldn’t make a sound. Grief had turned my throat to dust.
Two weeks later she began “clearing clutter” with the efficiency of someone cleaning a place they never meant to call home. Suits. Shoes. And then a trash bag filled with Dad’s ties — the wild paisleys, the ridiculous guitars, the striped ones he wore on “big meeting” days.
“He’s not coming back for them,” she said, letting them drop into the bag.
I waited for her to step out of the room, then carried the bag into my closet. Every piece of silk still smelled faintly of cedar and his drugstore cologne. I couldn’t let them go.
Prom hovered on the calendar like a dare I didn’t want to accept. One night, sitting on my bedroom floor with that bag of ties beside me, an idea appeared like a thread pulling itself taut. If he couldn’t be there with me… I could bring him with me.
I taught myself to sew in the quiet hours after midnight — crooked seams, YouTube tutorials, pricked fingers — until those ties became a skirt. Every piece held a memory: the paisley from his big interview, the navy from my middle-school solo, the silly guitars he wore every Christmas when he burned cinnamon rolls and insisted it was “part of the recipe.”
When I zipped it up, the silk caught the light and felt warm, as if his arm had briefly settled around my shoulder.
Carla stopped in my doorway, looked me over, and actually snorted.
“You’re wearing that? It looks like something made from a bargain-bin craft kit.”
As she walked away, she added — loud enough — “Always milking the orphan act, aren’t we?”
The words stung deep. I hung the skirt up and whispered to myself that love is not a plea for pity. Love is a promise.
The next morning, I woke to the sharp scent of her perfume. My closet door was open. The skirt lay on the floor — seams ripped, threads trailing like veins, some ties slashed clean through.
I called her name, my voice shaking. She drifted in, coffee in hand.
“Hideous, Emma. I did you a favor. Be realistic.”
I sank to my knees, gathering the torn pieces as if I could shield them.
“You destroyed the last thing I had of him.”
She sighed. “Please. He’s gone. Ties won’t bring him back.”
The front door slammed behind her, leaving the house echoing and hollow.
My hands trembling, I texted my best friend Mallory. Twenty minutes later she arrived with her mom, Ruth — a retired seamstress with a voice like a warm blanket. They didn’t ask a single question. Ruth threaded a needle and said, “Your dad will still walk you into that room tonight.”
We spread the torn silk across my bedroom floor. For hours, Ruth stitched and re-stitched, reshaped and strengthened. We lost some length. We added layers. A few repairs showed like small scars. When I tried it on again, it looked different — but somehow even more itself. It looked like something that had survived.
At six, I fastened one of Dad’s cufflinks to the waistband and walked downstairs. Carla made a face like she’d bitten into a lemon.
“You’re still wearing that? Don’t expect me to take pictures.”
Now the house feels like home again. She makes Dad’s Sunday eggs too runny, tells me stories about him taping his glasses together in middle school, and keeps his photo on the mantel where the afternoon light always finds it.
The tie skirt hangs on my closet door. Some seams still show their mending. I like it that way.
When I touch the silk, I don’t think of destruction anymore.
I think of hands working together on my bedroom floor.
I think of a cufflink catching light.
I think of how love survives the tearing — and becomes something stronger in the re-stitching.
And when I step into the world, I don’t feel like I’m clinging to a memory.
