“I’m going to wear it every single day, Eddie. It’s beautiful.”

“If it makes you happy, that’s all that matters,” I said, blinking fast and looking away.

Robin wore that jacket to school every day without fail. She was so happy… until the afternoon she came home, and I knew instantly something was wrong.

She walked through the door with red eyes and her hands pressed flat against her sides—the way she does when she’s trying not to cry.

The jacket was in her arms instead of on her back, and even from across the room I could see the damage. A clean tear along the side seam and a stretched section near the collar.

I held out my hand, and she gave it to me silently.

She told me some kids had grabbed it at lunch, pulled at it, even cut into it with scissors while laughing. By the time she got it back, it was already ruined.

I expected her to be upset about the jacket. Instead, she stood in my kitchen apologizing to me, like she had done something wrong.

“I’m sorry, Eddie. I know how hard you worked for it. I’m so sorry.”

I set the jacket down and looked at her.

“Robin… stop.”

But she kept apologizing, and that hurt more than anything those kids had done.

That night, we sat at the kitchen table with our mother’s old sewing kit and fixed it. Robin threaded the needle while I held the fabric steady as she stitched it back together.

We found some iron-on patches in a drawer and used them to cover the worst of the damage.

It didn’t look new anymore. I told her she didn’t have to wear it again if she didn’t want to.

“I don’t care if they laugh,” she said, meeting my eyes. “It’s from my favorite person in the world. I’m wearing it.”

I didn’t argue.