The first time I saw my dad sewing in the living room, I thought he’d finally lost it. He was a plumber—hands rough from years of manual labor, knees that cracked when he stood, and boots that had seen more winters than most of my classmates. Sewing simply didn’t belong anywhere in his world. Neither did secrecy, which made the closed hall closet and the brown paper packages scattered around even stranger.
“Go to bed, Syd,” he said, hunched over a spread of ivory fabric.
I didn’t know then that he was crafting the most meaningful thing I would ever wear.
“Since when do you even know how to sew?” I asked.
“Since YouTube and your mom’s old sewing kit taught me,” he replied.
“That answer makes me more nervous, not less.”
He didn’t smile. “Bed. Now.”
