The world didn’t completely collapse when my father passed away. Silently, it cracked in areas that were hidden from view. No matter how difficult things got, he had been my pillar of support, my constant, and the one person who made life seem manageable. It was just the two of us for years after my mother died when I was eight years old. We had late-night conversations at the kitchen table, ate pancakes smothered in syrup on the weekends, and he assured me in a firm voice that I could manage whatever came next.
The morning he passed out from an unexpected heart attack, that feeling of security was gone.
After that, the home seemed empty, as if the walls were in mourning. Long after her death, my stepmother Carla’s luxury perfume continued to linger as she went around the rooms with icy efficiency. A few years prior, she had wed my dad, but she never brought warmth with her. She did not cry at the hospital. She leaned in and whispered that I should stop crying since I was humiliating myself when I was shaking next to the coffin during the funeral. For her, grieving was a hassle.
She started deleting him two weeks later.
She packed his items into trash bags like she was getting rid of clutter as she swiftly and mercilessly emptied his closet. Something inside of me exploded when I watched her toss his ties—ties he wore regularly, even on casual Fridays—into a black bag. I pleaded with her to halt. She advised me to mature. I grabbed the bag and hid it in my closet when she left the room. There was still a hint of his aftershave on the ties, a combination of cedar and cheap fragrance that instantly reminded him of him.
When prom time rolled around, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go. I was always plagued by grief. However, an idea came to me one night while I was sitting on my bed with that bag of ties open next to me. My father had always been a firm believer in being present and showing up. Somehow, I wanted him there with me.
I learned how to sew on my own.
I studied stitches, watched lessons night after night, and gradually put the ties together to create a flowing skirt. There was a recollection in each tie. The paisley one from his big interview. He wore a navy tie to my middle school graduation. His ludicrous guitar-print tie, which he wore while baking cinnamon buns every Christmas morning. There were flaws in the skirt. It seemed alive even though the hem dropped irregularly and the seams trembled. I whispered that he would have adored it when I tried it on.
Carla didn’t.
When she saw it, she chuckled and described it as unpleasant and unsightly. Her muttering that I was “playing the orphan for sympathy” came to me later. I started to doubt myself as her comments crept under my skin. Was I holding on to grief too much? Or was she just unable to comprehend love that didn’t work out for her?
I carefully put the skirt on my closet door the night before prom. I dreamed of dancing in the dark with my dad at my side as I went to sleep.
There was destruction when I awoke.
Carla’s perfume filled the room. The door to the closet was open. The skirt was torn apart and lying on the ground. ripped seams. Cut ties with scissors. Wounds strewn about like threads. I yelled her name. With her coffee in hand and a composed expression, she informed me that she had done me a favor. My father was dead, she declared, and no amount of bonds could make him come back.
I fell to the ground, clutching the torn cloth, trembling with sorrow and fury.
Carla warned me not to cry on the new carpet before she went for the store.
I sobbed when I texted Mallory, my closest friend. She and her mother, Ruth, a retired seamstress, arrived in a matter of minutes. They didn’t inquire. They went to work. They spent hours fixing what they could, adjusting ties, strengthening seams, and carefully and reverently sewing by hand. The skirt appeared altered—it was stronger, shorter, layered, and clearly repaired. It seems to have survived an incident. like I had.
Carla scoffed when I came downstairs wearing it. I didn’t say anything as I passed her.
Prom was a life-changing event. People inquired about the skirt. I informed them that my late father’s ties were used to make it. Teachers wept. Friends gave me hugs. I laughed until my chest felt lighter than it had in months, and I danced until my feet ached. My principal whispered that my father would be pleased that I had earned a ribbon for “Most Unique Attire.”
That seemed like the end to me.
It wasn’t.
The house was painted red and blue by police lights when I returned home that evening. Carla was being arrested by officers on suspicion of identity theft and insurance fraud, which were related to months of fabricated claims made using my father’s name and Social Security number. During an audit that morning, her employer had discovered everything. I had set her up, she yelled. I hadn’t. Karma has just shown up on schedule.
The officer informed her she had enough regrets for one night after taking a quick look at my skirt as she was escorted away.
Prosecutors described fraud totaling tens of thousands of dollars in the months that followed. Carla’s lawsuit took a long time. My grandmother, meantime, returned to the house with stories, warmth, and my father’s cooking. Although it took time, healing did occur.
I still have that skirt hanging in my wardrobe. It’s not just fabric. It’s resiliency, remembrance, and evidence that love triumphs over cruelty. Sometimes the exact things that are supposed to break us end up keeping us together.