She took a breath, reached for the zipper, and pulled it down.
The uniform was neatly pressed, still clean. I put my arm around her shoulders and stared at it silently.
Wren touched the sleeve with two fingers.
“Well? Do you think it could work?”
“Open it. Let’s see what you have to work with.”
My late husband’s mother had taught Wren to sew when she was young. Wren still had her old sewing machine, and occasionally begged me for fabric to make her own clothes
