Dad came home with brown paper packages and tucked them under his arm when he saw me.
At night, long after I went to bed, I heard the low hum of the sewing machine from the living room.
The first time I heard it, I padded out in my socks and stood in the hallway.
My father was bent over a spill of ivory fabric under the lamp. He had reading glasses low on his nose and his mouth pulled tight in concentration. One thick hand held the cloth steady while the other guided it through the machine with a care I’d only ever seen him use on old photographs.
I leaned against the wall. “Since when do you sew?”
He jumped so hard he nearly jabbed himself with the needle.
Dad came home with brown paper packages.
“Goodness, Syd,” he said.
“Sorry, Dad. I heard sounds.”
He pulled the glasses off. “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 pulled the glasses off.
He held up a finger. “Nope. Out.”
“You’re being weird, Dad.”
“Go, baby,” he said, offering me a small smile.
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