Wren had learned to sew from her grandmother. She still kept her sewing machine and often made her own clothes.
“I can turn this into a prom dress,” she said slowly. “But… are you really okay with that?”
Part of me wasn’t. That uniform had meant everything to Matt. It was a reminder of how he died.
But my daughter was here—and she needed this.
“Of course,” I said, pulling her into a hug. “I’d love to see what you create.”
For the next two months, our home became a workshop.
Fabric covered the dining table. Thread rolled under chairs. Pins showed up in places I still don’t understand.
The badge stayed on the mantle in a velvet box.
Not his official one—that had been returned after the funeral.
This one was more special.
I remembered the night he gave it to her.
Wren was three, sitting on the living room floor when Matt came home and crouched beside her.
“I’ve got something for you,” he said, holding out a small badge.
It wasn’t official—just carefully shaped metal, polished to shine. His number was written across it in marker.
“I made you your own so you can be my partner.”
