I should have challenged her then. Instead, I was exhausted and wanted to believe my sister had good intentions. Families teach you to doubt your own discomfort long before they teach you the language for betrayal.
In late October, I finished the last hand-sewn flower. Evelyn stood behind me while I put the dress on a form and turned it slowly under the shop's ceiling lights. The rose-colored silk moved beneath the sheer overlay like water beneath thin ice. Evelyn didn't say anything for so long that I thought she had found a problem. Then she removed her glasses and wiped her eyes.
"Your father would have liked the way it moves," she said.
I pressed my lips together. "I wanted him to see it."
"He gave you the table," she answered. "You did the rest."
That weekend I began assembling my application. I had sketches, dated photographs, construction notes, a short statement about the meaning of *Second Sunrise*, and video clips of myself sewing the bodice, attaching the beads, and closing the hem. I also had a simple website I built with help from Imani, my closest friend from college, who understood more about digital portfolios than I ever would. For the first time, the future seemed like something I could reach for without asking permission.
Then the Aurora organizers announced an additional requirement for applicants seeking the sponsored runway presentation: a final fitting and an in-person design provenance review. I panicked because traveling to Charlotte for the review meant losing a week's wages, paying for transport, and finding a safe way to carry the gown. Imani offered to split the gas. Evelyn offered her garment bag. I submitted my entry and received confirmation under my own name.
Three days later, I went to work and came home to find a new lock on the spare-room door. My mother was standing beside the hallway console, holding the keys.
"The housekeeper needs to tidy that room before our guests arrive," she told me.
"Since when do we have a housekeeper?"
"Don't start. Sienna has people coming to discuss her career. The room is a disaster."
I told her my garment was inside and I needed access. She handed over a key reluctantly, but by then my sister had already taken photographs of the gown on the dress form. I saw one of those pictures on her phone the following morning. The caption she'd drafted called the dress "a personal labor of love" and referred to seven months of work. She had copied not only my creation but the very measure of my effort.
"You can't post that," I said.
"It's an inspiration post," she answered, turning the screen away. "Don't be dramatic."
I demanded that she delete the photograph. She said she would. She didn't.
The following Friday, I was putting the final protective cover over the gown when my mother and Sienna entered the room together. I had barely turned around before Sienna took the hanger. Her satin dress made a soft swishing sound against the carpet; my mother's cream jacket was so carefully pressed it looked almost sharp. They had already decided what would happen, and I was the last person to learn it.