I grew up in a home where words like “selvages”, “batiste” and “passementerie” were part of a private family vernacular.

My mother sewed for my sisters and me, but always for her own pleasure, and I longed for nothing more than to sit in her sewing room, lulled by the song of her whirring machine, thrilled by the concentration on her beautiful face and the magical way she transformed fabric into art. Until a series of painful but successful experimental surgeries gave me freedom, I did not venture far from her side. In that sunny workroom she taught me that kindness could be measured in stitches, inches and in the hand-rolled hem of a chiffon evening gown. Sewing was our language of love, and it remained a way that she expressed her unwavering belief in me for as long as she lived.