He was a plumber with cracked hands, bad knees, and work boots older than some of my classmates. Sewing wasn’t part of his skill set. Neither was secrecy, which made the closed hall closet and the brown paper packages even stranger.
“Go to bed, Syd,” he said, hunching over a piece of ivory fabric. I didn’t know yet that he was making me the most important thing I would ever wear. I leaned on the doorway.
“Since when do you even know how to sew?”
He didn’t look up. “Since YouTube and your mom’s old sewing kit taught me.”
I laughed. “That answer made me more nervous, Dad.
