Her expression hardened instantly.

“Your father was terrible with money and even worse with boundaries.”

I ran upstairs and cried into my pillow like I was a child again.

Later that night, I heard Noah standing outside my door. He finally walked in carrying a stack of old denim jeans.

Mom’s jeans.

He placed them carefully on my bed.

“Do you trust me?” he asked quietly.

I stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I took sewing last year, remember?”

“You can sew?”

“I can try,” he said quickly. “I mean… if it’s stupid, forget it.”

I grabbed his wrist before he could pull away.

“No. I love the idea.”

So we started working in secret whenever Carla left the house or stayed locked in her room.

Noah dug Mom’s old sewing machine out of the laundry closet and set it up in the kitchen. Night after night, he cut denim panels, stitched seams, and carefully shaped fabric with more patience than I had ever seen from him.

Watching him handle Mom’s old clothes so gently nearly broke my heart.

When the dress was finally done, I couldn’t stop staring at it.

It hugged the waist perfectly and flowed at the bottom in layered shades of faded blue denim. Noah had somehow turned old jeans into something artistic and beautiful.

For the first time in a long while, it felt like Mom was still with us.

The next morning, Carla saw the dress hanging on my bedroom door.

She walked closer, stared at it for a second, then burst out laughing.

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“It’s my prom dress,” I said.

“That patchwork disaster?”

Noah immediately stepped out of his room.

“I made it,” he said.

Carla’s smile became crueler.

“You made that?”

He lifted his chin nervously. “Yeah.”

“That explains a lot.”

“Enough,” I snapped.

But she kept going.

“You’re seriously planning to wear a dress made from old jeans? People are going to laugh at you all night.”

Noah went stiff beside me.

I looked directly at her.

Part 2: