Chapter 1: The Dress That Wasn't Hers
“Stop crying, Olivia. A real designer could make another dress from scraps.””
My mother said those words while my sister stood in front of my bedroom mirror wearing the wedding dress I'd spent six months making.
My wedding dress.
Except I wasn't getting married.
I had designed it for the Atlanta Young Designers Competition, where the grand prize was forty thousand dollars. That money could finally pay for the surgery my doctors believed might save the remaining vision in my right eye.
And my mother had given it to my sister.
I stood in the doorway, gripping the frame because the room kept swimming in and out of focus.
“Mom,” I whispered.
“Why is Maya wearing my dress?””
My mother, Patricia Parker, folded her arms.
“Because your sister needs it more.””
Maya turned sideways, examining the gown's fitted waist and delicate ivory lace sleeves.
“Honestly, Olivia, I don't know why you're making such a big deal about this.””
I stared at the dress.
I'd embroidered every flower by hand. I'd spent three weeks adjusting the bodice because my eyesight made it difficult to distinguish individual threads. I'd pricked my fingers so many times that tiny scars still marked my fingertips.
The gown had a low back, a flowing silk skirt, and hundreds of tiny pearl beads sewn along the waist.
I'd even hidden a small embroidered butterfly beneath the lining.
It was my grandmother's symbol.
“Take it off,” I said.
Maya laughed.
“Excuse me?””
“That's my dress.””
My mother stepped between us.
“Your sister has a better chance of winning.””
I looked at her.
“What?””
“Olivia, be realistic. Maya has the face, the confidence, and the connections. You have your medical problems. The judges aren't going to feel sorry for you.””
Maya lifted the skirt and examined the hem.
“Mom's right. Besides, this dress looks much better on me.””
I moved toward her.
“Take it off. Please.””
Maya stepped backward, deliberately dragging the skirt across the corner of my sewing table.
A pearl caught on a metal drawer handle.
I heard the thread snap.
“Careful!”” I cried.
Maya shrugged.
“Then you should've made it stronger.””
I reached for the damaged section, but my mother slapped my hand away.
“Don't you dare ruin your sister's opportunity!””
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
I looked at the two women standing in my bedroom. My mother had watched me work on that gown every evening. She knew about the surgery. She knew I'd sold my grandmother's antique bracelet to buy the silk.
She had even brought me tea while I worked.
And now she was protecting the person wearing my work.
“You stole it,” I said.
My mother lowered her voice.
“Don't use that word.””
“It's theft. I'm reporting it.””
She walked closer until I could smell her perfume.
“Who would believe a girl who can barely see what she's sewing?””
The words landed harder than the slap I'd been expecting.
Maya smiled.
“Maybe you should concentrate on getting better instead of pretending you're some famous designer.””
Then she walked out wearing my dress.
My mother followed her, pausing at the doorway.
“Don't make this harder than it needs to be, Olivia.””
The door closed.
I remained standing there, staring at the empty space where my dress had been.
For six months, that gown had represented something I could still control.
My eyesight was disappearing. My medical appointments were becoming more frequent. Reading a simple page sometimes required a magnifying device.
But my hands still knew what to do.
I could still create something beautiful.
That night, I sat on the floor beside my sewing machine and cried until my eyes burned.
Then I remembered the wooden sewing box Grandma Eleanor had left me.
It had been sitting beneath my bed since her funeral.
I pulled it out and opened the brass clasp.
Inside were six yards of ivory silk, delicate French lace, and several old sewing patterns.
There was also a folded handwritten note.
I recognized Grandma's handwriting immediately.
Never let anyone convince you that your hands have lost their gift.
I pressed the paper against my chest.
Then I noticed something strange.
Beneath the note was a small envelope bearing the words:
*Olivia — Open only when someone tries to steal your work.*
My grandmother had written my name.
And she had known this day might come.
I opened the envelope with trembling fingers.
Inside was a photograph of Grandma standing beside a younger woman in front of a fashion studio.
On the back, she'd written one sentence.
Your mother knows why the butterfly belongs to you.
I read it twice.
Then I looked toward the hallway.
Why would my mother know anything about a butterfly embroidered beneath my dress?
And what exactly had Grandma been trying to protect me from?
I placed the photograph beside my sewing machine.
The competition was eleven days away.
I wasn't going to withdraw.
If my mother thought she had taken away my future, she was about to discover that she'd made one enormous mistake.
May you like
I still had my hands.
And I still had eleven nights.
