On my son’s eighth birthday, my mother handed him a frilly pink dress. My mother laughed loudly, “I grabbed it in a rush—tell your mom to turn it into a shirt. Sewing is her hobby anyway.” My sister sneered at my son’s tears. “It actually suits you. Sarah has plenty of dresses—want to try them?” I glanced at the luxury bags they were carrying and said calmly, “Fake brands suit you. See you in court.”

Chapter 1: The “Failed” Seamstress
My apartment in downtown Seattle was my sanctuary and my secret. It was a modest one-bedroom loft with exposed brick walls and large, multi-paned industrial windows that drank in the city’s perpetual grey light. To the untrained eye, it looked like the home of a struggling artist—sparse furniture, no television, and a heavy oak dining table completely overrun by organized chaos. Rolls of fabric, spools of thread in every conceivable color, and a vintage-looking sewing machine that hummed with a steady, rhythmic thud-thud-thud.

But to a trained eye, that table was a treasure chest.