“A dress for poor people!” my daughter said. But at the party, when I walked in, she fainted скачать в хорошем качестве

“A dress for poor people!” my daughter said. But at the party, when I walked in, she fainted

I spent the entire night sewing my daughter's wedding gown, stitch by painful stitch, without even stopping to rest my eyes. Each needle pass was a memory. Every thread, a promise. The clock's steady tick- tock accompanied me until dawn, marking the hours like the echo of my own life, which felt like it was unraveling slowly. When I finished, the first ray of sun peaked through the window and settled on the white fabric. It was beautiful. It didn't have the sparkle of Fifth Avenue boutiques or the price tag of a high fashion designer, but it was made with the love of a mother who, even after a lifetime of sacrifice, still believed that genuine care could heal anything. I carried the gown with trembling hands wrapped in an old sheet to protect it. When I arrived at the home of my daughter, Zuri, she was surrounded by girlfriends, laughing and sipping coffee from delicate cups. She looked like one of those perfect, distant Hollywood socialites. For a moment, I felt a deep surge of pride, and then it happened. Zuri looked up, scanned me from head to toe, and asked, "Is that the dress?" I nodded, smiling. I unwrapped the fabric carefully, as if revealing a treasure. She looked at it for only a few seconds, and then, with a sneer of contempt, she let it fly. This looks like something a poor person would wear. Her friends giggled softly. Before I could react, she snatched the gown and tossed it into the trash can. I'm not getting married dressed like a seamstress, Mom. I felt the air abandon my lungs. I didn't say anything. Not a single word. I just gathered my broken pride from the floor and walked out slowly before they could notice I was crying. I walked back home. My vision clouded. The sun was beating down hard, but I only felt cold. The gown was still in my mind, every stitch burning like an open wound. I thought of the sleepless nights, the years working at the old machine my mother left me, the calluses on my hands, everything I had given up so Zuri could reach where she was.