I cut my stepdaughter’s late mom’s dresses

that already existed and tried to reshape it into something that made me comfortable, without thinking about what it would cost.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and this time it feels different. Real. Raw. “I was jealous. Of someone who isn’t even here anymore, and I let that turn me into someone I don’t recognize.”

He watches me for a long moment, like he’s trying continue reading …