Julian hadn’t worn a store-bought costume.

For the past six months, working in secret late at night after his father went to sleep, Julian had taken the tiny, faded red dress from Lily’s memory box in the attic.

He had unpicked the seams himself, sourced matching yards of red silk, and used his grandmother’s old sewing machine to rebuild his sister’s childhood dress into a gown tailored to his own frame.

Every seam was a memory.

Every line of stitching was a bond seventeen years of absence could not break.

My husband, Caleb, had refused to come because he thought our son was seeking attention.