The first time I caught my dad sewing in the living room, I honestly thought he had finally lost it.
My father was a plumber. He had rough hands, stiff knees, and work boots that looked older than half the boys at my school. He knew pipes, leaks, and how to make chili stretch for three nights. He did not know lace, hems, or zippers.
And yet there he was, hunched over a pool of ivory fabric under the yellow glow of the lamp, squinting through a pair of reading glasses he only wore when bills got too small to read.“Go to bed, Syd,” he said without looking up.
I leaned against the doorway and crossed my arms. “Since when do you even know how to sew?”
“Since YouTube and your mom’s old sewing kit taught me.”I let out a laugh. “That answer made me more nervous, Dad. Not less.”
He finally turned and pointed toward my room. “Bed. Now.”
At the time, I had no idea he was making the most important thing I would ever wear
