It was ripped down one sleeve. The stitching was pulled apart. One pocket was hanging by a thread. The silver stars were scratched and torn.
My chest tightened.
“Robin… what happened?”
That’s when she broke.
“They—” she started, but her voice cracked. “They pulled it… and laughed… and said it looked cheap…”
Each word came out like it hurt.
I felt something sharp twist inside me. Anger. Helplessness. A mix I didn’t know what to do with.
But what crushed me the most wasn’t the jacket.
It was what she said next.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “I know you worked so hard for it.”
I blinked, stunned.
She thought this was her fault.
I knelt in front of her, holding her shoulders gently.
For illustrative purposes only
“Hey. No,” I said firmly. “You have NOTHING to be sorry for. Do you hear me?”
She nodded, but her eyes still looked uncertain.
That night, we sat at the kitchen table together.
I pulled out a sewing kit I barely knew how to use.
We worked side by side.
Stitching.
Fixing.
