The needle punched through my skin before I could stop it.

I froze for a second, breath caught in my throat, then pulled it free and pressed my thumb into a scrap of cloth. The sting lingered, sharp and insistent, but I didn’t dare let the blood touch the dark green material spread across my lap. That piece of fabric mattered too much.

It still carried a trace of him. Not strong—just enough to catch me off guard if I leaned in close. Clean soap, worn leather, something steady I couldn’t name but recognized instantly.

If Camila or the girls ever saw me with it, I’d never hear the end of it. First the smirks, then the whispers meant to carry just far enough.

So I kept quiet.

The soft snip of scissors and the steady pull of thread filled the room, each movement careful, deliberate. It didn’t feel like sewing anymore. It felt like trying to keep something from falling apart.

Sometimes, when the house finally went still, I would hold the fabric close and breathe in what little remained of him. I’d remember how he used to stand behind me at the machine, guiding my hands, calm and sure, like mistakes were just part of learning and nothing was ever truly ruined.

That was before he married her.

After that, the house changed in ways no one talked about. Camila could be gentle—especially when he was around—but it never lasted. The moment he stepped out, something colder took its place.

The work never seemed to end after that. Clothes I hadn’t worn piled up outside my door. Small things went missing and somehow became my fault. Lia and Jen moved through the rooms like they had always belonged there, like I was the one out of place.