“That’s actually why I called,” she said quickly. “I think it’s wonderful exposure, but you’ll want to be careful about how you present yourself. Maybe I could help you prepare for the interview. Make sure you say the right things.”
The right things, as if my own words describing my own work might not be adequate without her editorial guidance.
“I’ll call you back,” I said, and hung up before she could respond.
Gloria arrived an hour later with Thai takeout and the expression of someone who’d been fielding phone calls all day.
“Your daughter called me,” she announced, setting containers of pad thai on my kitchen table. “Wanted to know if I was encouraging you in this sewing venture and whether I understood the financial realities of custom work.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her that in three weeks you’ve made more money per hour than I make waitressing, and that your financial realities include having a waiting list of clients willing to pay premium prices for work they can’t get anywhere else.”
Gloria’s eyes flashed.
“Then I may have mentioned that dismissing museum-quality craftsmanship as a sewing venture shows a fundamental misunderstanding of both art and business.”
I found myself smiling for the first time all day.
“How did she take that?”
“About as well as you’d expect. She suggested I might be getting above myself and that it would be unfortunate if I encouraged you to make unrealistic career decisions at your age.”
At my age. Sixty-two years old—apparently too ancient for new dreams.
“Gloria,” I said suddenly, “do you remember what you wanted to do when you were in fashion school?”
“Before my father got sick?” Her face shifted, vulnerability replacing the fierce protectiveness she’d been wearing. “I wanted to design clothes for real women. Not size-zero models or celebrities. Women with curves and stories and lives that didn’t fit standard patterns.”
She laughed, but it sounded hollow.
“Naïve, right? The professors kept pushing us toward commercially viable designs—clothes that could be mass-produced and marketed to the broadest possible demographic.”
“What if it wasn’t naïve?” I said.
“What do you mean?”
I stood up, pacing to the window. Beyond it, my neighbors’ predictable garden showed the same flowers planted in the same patterns year after year—safe, unremarkable, and slowly dying from lack of imagination.
“What if we didn’t just take commissions for wedding dresses? What if we actually started a real business? Custom clothing for women who’ve been ignored by the fashion industry.”
Gloria set down her fork.
“Bri, are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting that maybe a retired teacher and a former fashion student might know something about what real women actually want to wear. I’m suggesting that maybe commercially viable has made fashion boring and soulless, and maybe there’s room for something different.”
The silence stretched between us, full of possibility and terror in equal measure.
“We’d need capital,” Gloria said finally. “Equipment, space, materials, a real business license, marketing beyond Instagram posts.”
“I have some savings,” I said. “And this house. I could take out a home equity loan.”
“Bri, that’s your security. Your safety net.”
“No,” I said, turning from the window to face her. “Hi was my safety net. My teaching pension was my security. This house was my retreat from the world. But none of those things actually made me safe, did they?”
“Hi threw away six months of my love without a second thought. My pension barely covers my bills. And this house has been a beautiful prison where I’ve been slowly disappearing.”
Gloria was quiet for a long moment, studying my face as if looking for signs of temporary insanity or permanent resolve.
“What would we call it?” she asked finally.
“The business.”
“Yeah. What would we name a custom clothing company started by a retired teacher and a runaway fashion student in suburban Portland?”
I thought about Ella’s face in the mirror, about the joy of creating something beautiful for someone who truly appreciated it, about Halie’s nervous laughter and Mia’s dismissive smile, about the years I’d spent making myself smaller to fit other people’s expectations.
“Threadwork,” I said. “Custom clothing by women who understand that every body tells a story worth honoring.”
Gloria’s grin started slow and built like sunrise.
“Threadwork. I like it.”
She pulled out her phone.
“I’m googling business license requirements.”
“Gloria, wait. Are we really doing this?”
She looked up from her screen, her expression shifting from excitement to something deeper and more serious.
“Bri, three weeks ago you were a retired teacher whose daughter treated you like an embarrassing obligation. Today, you’re a sought-after artist with a waiting list of clients and a TV interview scheduled for Friday. Tomorrow…”
She shrugged.
“Tomorrow we change the fashion industry, one custom dress at a time.”
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