Mom got sick. Diabetes she never treated properly because doctor visits cost money, and she always put me first. By the time we understood how serious it was, it was already too late. I held her hand in the hospital, listening to machines hum, wishing I could trade years of my life for one more day of hers.
After she died, I kept the dress. I couldn’t bring myself to give it away. It stayed in my closet, wrapped carefully, holding her scent—and her sacrifice.
Years later, my daughter came home buzzing with excitement about a retro-themed photo shoot at school. Watching her twirl around the living room, an idea tugged at my heart.
“I have something special you can wear,” I told her.
She slipped into the dress, and for a moment, time folded in on itself. It fit her perfectly, as if it had been waiting.
She ran to her room to admire herself—then I heard her voice, sharp with confusion.
“Mom! What is this?!”
I rushed in. She was pressing her fingers against the inside seam. I felt it too—a small, round shape hidden in the lining. My hands trembled as I carefully opened the stitches.
A gold ring slipped into my palm.
I froze.
