for the scissors.
“Of course.”
And as the afternoon sunlight settled across her little sewing table, I thought about the child who had once stood in a crowded living room holding a garbage bag while everyone laughed.
She hadn’t become worthy when a famous company chose her.
She hadn’t become worthy when the contract arrived, or when the money was deposited, or when a designer praised her work.
She had been worthy the entire time.
The only thing that had changed was that the people who mattered had finally learned to stand beside her.
Emma placed the first clean piece of fabric beneath her sewing-machine needle.
David came in carrying a plate of sliced apples.
George called on video to ask about the new project.
And somewhere on her desk, the unopened envelope containing that Christmas drawing for Barbara rested beneath her original Growing Coat sketches.
Emma pressed the pedal gently.
The machine began to hum.
This time, nobody told her what she deserved.
She was too busy making something beautiful.
