I unlocked the door and pushed it open.
And screamed.
My father stood beside a large mirror.
An elderly woman stood near the bed.
Spread across the mattress was a beautiful pink dress, surrounded by fabric and sewing equipment.
On the wall hung several photographs of me as a little girl.
Beside them was a drawing of a woman wearing that same pink dress.
Underneath, in Emily’s handwriting, were the words:
“My mommy deserves to feel beautiful again.”
My knees gave way.
Dad rushed to catch me.
“Sarah! What’s wrong?”
I couldn’t answer.
The elderly woman introduced herself as Linda, my late mother’s closest friend and a retired seamstress.
Then Dad explained.
Three weeks earlier, Emily had found an old photograph of me at ten years old, wearing a pink dress my mother had made.
She’d asked why I never wore beautiful dresses anymore.
Dad told her how much I used to love dressing up.
