As I grew into a self-obsessed teenager with an opinion about fashion, Mum took me to the local sewing shop, where we pored over Butterick patterns and rummaged through rolls of colourful fabrics.
Huddled over the sewing machine, Mum pedalled long into the night as I slept. I awoke to new clothes dangling on the doorknob in my bedroom. Once, I moaned selfishly that the dress "looks nothing like the picture in the pattern".
But on December 20, 2007, Dad wrote that Mum "forgot how to work the sewing machine".