Three days later, Mom and I went to Grandma’s house.
She was exhausted from the party.
Not ill.
She slept most of that week.
The sewing box came with me.
So did the unfinished dress.
I bought a beginner sewing kit.
It was humiliating.
I watched videos.
I called Mom.
Mom was somehow worse than I was.
“I thought Grandma taught you.”
“She tried.”
“What happened?”
“I hated it.”
“So did I.”
Apparently, we came from a long line of women who benefited from one woman’s skill while refusing to learn it.
Eventually, my uncle found Grandma’s old sewing machine in a closet.
Grandma couldn’t use it anymore, but she could still criticize.
I brought the dress to her.
She inspected my first attempt at the sleeve.
“This seam is terrible.”
“I know.”
“Take it out.”
“It took me two hours.”
“Then you’ll be faster the second time.”
I glared at her.
