When my wife Linda grew too weak from her battle with cancer, she began spending more and more time in her sewing room. She’d always reassure me with that soft, familiar smile and say, “It’s a surprise.” I didn’t realize then that she was creating something beyond precious—her last gift to our daughter, Sammy.
I was 42 when I lost Linda, suddenly a single father to a teenage girl. The house felt too quiet after she passed, except for the faint memory of her sewing machine—the hum of her love still echoing in the walls.
Six months before she died, Linda had told me only that she was working on something special. After the funeral, her sister Amy discovered sketches, silk samples, and detailed notes tucked away in the attic. Linda had been working tirelessly to recreate the wedding gown Sammy had dreamed of since she was little—a $20,000 designer-inspired dress she had admired for years.
Though Linda couldn’t finish it, Amy—a skilled seamstress herself—took over, using Linda’s work as her blueprint. She spent months carefully following Linda’s vision, honoring every detail. When the dress was finally revealed—about 80% completed by Linda and the rest by Amy—we were overwhelmed. The ivory silk shimmered, the lace cascaded like water, and delicate beadwork caught the light just right. For Sammy, it was like having her mom close again.
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