“Dad, can you help me with this hemline?” Emma called from the sewing table one evening.
I walked over, guiding her hand to feel where the fabric bunched. “Right there, sweetheart. Feel that? You need to smooth it out before you pin it.”
She smiled, her fingers working quickly. “Got it!”
And not once did they
ask
about their mother.
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Clara looked up from her own project. “Dad, do you think we’re good enough to sell these?”
I looked at the gowns they’d created… intricate, beautiful, made with more love than any designer label could ever hold.
“You’re more than good enough, dear,” I said softly. “You’re incredible.”
Last Thursday morning started like any other. The girls were working on new designs, and I was making coffee when the doorbell rang. I wasn’t expecting anyone.
When I opened the door, Lauren stood there like a ghost I’d buried 18 years ago.
She looked different. Polished and expensive, like someone who’d spent years crafting an image.
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