Dad came home with brown paper packages and tucked them away whenever I was around.
And late at night—long after I went to bed—I heard the soft hum of a sewing machine coming from the living room.
The first time I heard it, I crept out in my socks and stood in the hallway.
There he was, bent over a spill of ivory fabric beneath the lamp. His reading glasses sat low on his nose, his mouth tight with concentration. One thick hand held the fabric steady while the other guided it carefully through the machine—the same care I’d only ever seen him use with old photographs.
I leaned against the wall. “Since when do you sew?”
He jumped so hard he nearly stabbed himself with the needle.
“Goodness, Syd,” he muttered.
“Sorry, Dad. I heard sounds.”
He took off his glasses. “Go to bed.”
“What are you making?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
I looked at the fabric again. “That doesn’t look like nothing.”
He raised a finger. “Nope. Out.”
“You’re being weird, Dad.”
“Go, baby,” he said gently, offering a small smile.
For nearly a month, that became our routine.
