Chapter 9 - My Father's Name
College was different.
Almost nobody knew Westbridge.
Nobody cared about the gala video.
I introduced myself simply as Elena.
Not Elena Hart, daughter of Daniel Hart.
Not the girl in the trash video.
Just Elena.
I studied textile design and social entrepreneurship.
Dad pretended surprise.
“You’re combining fashion and spreadsheets.”
“Your worst nightmare.”
“My greatest achievement.”
During sophomore year, I started a small program called Second Thread.
We collected formal clothing from donation centers.
Students studying design altered the pieces.
Then we provided them free to teenagers who needed dresses, suits or formalwear for school events.
The first year we helped thirty-two students.
The second year, one hundred and eleven.
Dad offered funding.
I refused.
He sighed.
“Of course.”
“I want to test whether it works first.”
“You are exhausting.”
“Genetics.”
Eventually we accepted a grant.
Not from him.
From another foundation.
That made Dad irrationally proud.
Three years after Westbridge, Saint Mark’s Church invited me back.
Mrs. Donnelly still remembered the navy dress.
“I knew you’d do something with it.”
“You absolutely did not.”
“No, but that sounds nicer.”
We laughed.
I donated several new dresses to the same table where I had found mine.
Before leaving, I saw a teenage girl examining one.
She checked the price tag even though there wasn’t one.
Mrs. Donnelly said:
“Free.”
The girl looked embarrassed.
I knew that feeling.
I approached.
“That one alters really well.”
She looked at me.
“You sew?”
“A little.”
“Is taking something donated weird?”
“No.”
I thought of Westbridge.
Then smiled.
“Clothes don’t know what they cost. People decide whether that matters.”
She took the dress.
I never told her who I was.
May you like
I didn’t need to.
That was the point.
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