And I realized I’d seen dresses like that before.
My mother taught me to sew when I was even younger than Lily. Back then, it wasn’t a hobby. It was simply how we got by.

The next morning, I knocked on Lily’s door, still in my pajamas, a warm mug of coffee in my hands.
“What if I made you something like it?” I asked. “Really close to it. We could choose the fabric together and design it exactly the way you want.”

She sat up in bed, her hair a mess, looking doubtful.
“Mom, that’s so much work. What if it doesn’t turn out right?”
“Then we’ll keep going until it does,” I said, sounding more confident than I felt. “Your grandmother always said the best dresses are made with love, not money.”

She was quiet for a long moment. Then she smiled and threw her arms around me.
“Okay. Let’s do it!”

For the next few weeks, our evenings took on a new rhythm. Fabric swatches covered the living room floor. We sketched designs between homework assignments and laughed at how dramatic some of my ideas became.
Lily wanted something simple and elegant, a dress that would make her feel confident without looking like she was trying too hard. We chose a soft pink fabric that shimmered when it moved, with a fitted bodice and a flowing skirt that would twirl when she danced.

I ordered the fabric on my credit card and tried not to think about the balance.
Every night after my second shift, I came home and sat down at the sewing machine. Even after all those years, my hands still remembered the rhythm.