My Terminally Ill Mother Stayed Up All Night Sewing My Prom Dress—Her Words When She Finished It Left Me Shattered

the next three weeks, my mother worked until sunrise.

Pain.

Nausea.

Exhaustion.

None of it stopped her.

Her hands were bruised from IV lines.

They shook constantly.

Yet she hand-stitched every bead and every layer of emerald silk.

Even now, I can hear the sound of her sewing machine at three o’clock in the morning.

Click.

Pause.

Click.

Pause.

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