Love By Design

Chapter 44

Spending the day with my grandparents by catching up and preparing food reminded me of when I used to visit them regularly during my time at boarding school. My Mama would be the one telling stories as she fussed around in the kitchen and my Papa would just sit back with a soft smile on his face, quietly listening and clinging on to her every word as he sips on his coffee by the island.

“Your Mama’s on a mission to collect fruits that are, once again, out of season for Christmas.” He shakes his head, gesturing towards the centre of the dining table.

My eyes catch the pomegranates inside the massive fruit basket and I’m momentarily reminded of August.

“Hush, Josef.” The playful tone in my grandma’s voice carries from the kitchen.

She returns to the dining room, placing a bowl of cut mango pieces in front of me.

“Thanks, Mama.” I smile at her, grateful.

Conversations pick up again, the topic of my job inevitable. I tell them about the outcome of the regalwear collection, how I won’t be attending the Winter Gala after a disagreement with the lead designer, even though I worked the extensive bulk of the project. I briefly skim over the details but I did disclose to them that I’ll be quitting Holmes.

I avoid any talk about August, still feeling like I can’t even mention the slightest bit of information about him without getting emotional. I left London for a change in environment and talking about him, no matter how small the discussion, will put me right back where I’m trying not to be.

In my feelings and out of my mind.

It’s well into the night by the time I head up to my childhood bedroom, feeling even more nostalgic as I take in the little sanctuary of an aspiring fashion designer in her teenage years.

An entire wall of my room is dedicated to a moodboard of the life I wanted to manifest with fashion sketches, magazine cutouts and vintage posters of my favourite fashion icons and runway shows.

The standard sewing machine and mannequin occupied the corner of my room. Next to it, a workstation that is neatly organised with sewing materials from yesteryears. Running my hand across the crafting surface, I expected it to be collecting dust so I’m surprised to find it spotless.

Stacks of cardboard boxes tucked underneath the table with the label ‘Lia’ taped on them grab my attention and I blink.

Kneeling down, I pull the boxes from under the table and begin opening them to find textile materials and crafting supplies, from fabrics and embellishments to equipment and tools.

Clothes that I used to cut up and reassemble, outfits for my dolls and teddy bears, life-size garments assembled together from scraps of fabric. I carefully pick up one of the pieces, a tattered dress made from fat quarters my grandma used to buy in the market. Sentimental memories flood my mind— countless hours spent and all fingers pricked as I sit in my room, needle in one hand and thread in the other, fabric markers in my pockets and a measuring tape around my neck. Nothing compared to the joy I felt when I finished a piece and the look of pride on my grandma’s face when I showed it to her.

Lost in my thoughts, I’m gently brought back to reality by the soft voice of my grandma standing by the door.

“Did you find anything useful?” She asks, walking inside.

“I can’t believe you kept all of these,” I reply quietly. “I thought you would have thrown them out by now.”

My grandma smiles, patting my hands as she picks up a fabric with hand-embroidered sequins and beads. “Why would I do that?”

“The stitches on that are awful.” I wrinkle my nose disapprovingly.

“It did quite nicely for a 10-year-old,” She chides, voice filled with warmth. “You were such a restless little thing. Nothing calmed you down more than seam rippers and scissors.”

“Dangerous for a hyperactive child,” I snort.

“Ayynako,” My grandma laughs, shaking her head. “You were always sneaking into my sewing room to steal equipment.”

“I cried every time you locked me out of it.” I nod, cringing at the memory.

“You threw the biggest temper tantrums.” She shakes her head, affectionately. “I remember how excited you were when you got your first sewing machine. I don’t think I ever heard it stop when you were here.”

I recall the summers I spent here in Switzerland, hunched over the sewing machine. I couldn’t have been older than 12 years old when my Mama and Papa gave me my first Singer. I created clothes constantly. Mostly DIYs and upcycling old clothes when I first started and then fully functional garments when I got better at operating the sewing machine and discovered clothing patterns.

I stare at my hands.

I never stopped sewing, I couldn’t. Nothing fuelled me more than creating something and bringing it to life.

Hands of the greats.

August’s voice rings in my head, my heart fluttering in my chest.

“This is probably my favourite,” My grandma comments, carefully retrieving a piece of clothing hidden beneath the endless layers of fabric.

The first jumper I knitted when I was 14.

My fingers gently caress the soft woollen garment. It’s a vibrant lilac adorned with red heart-shaped patches hand-embroidered on the sleeves. Memories of my younger self come flooding back and I vividly remember the countless hours I spent knitting the jumper, frustration and determination in every stitch.

“You were so excited to show it to us,” She smiles at me. “The little girl with restless hands, proudly wearing her heart on her sleeves.”

She holds it up against me, chuckling at how it looks like it could still fit me.

It probably could, to be fair.

“I think I stopped growing at 13,” I say seriously and my grandma laughs, eyes turning into half moons.

“Physically, yes.” She grins at me teasingly. “But you grow every day. You learn, you live, you laugh, you love. And you lose, sometimes, too. But that’s okay. That’s life, anak. You grow from it and you continue to grow with it.”

Tears well up in my eyes as I take in my grandma’s words. She’s always been the one to encourage me to dream big and follow my artistic pursuits ever since I was a little girl.

The only person, along with my Papa, who believed in me without question.

“I’m very proud of you, Lia.” My grandma shares.

The statement comes out of the blue and I turn to her, blinking.

“I can sense you’re struggling with something, hija.” She continues. “Do you not think your Papa and I will wonder why you’ve decided to visit in person, so out of the blue?”

I stay quiet, hesitant.

Despite the concerned expression on her face, an understanding flashes in my grandma’s eyes.

“I’m not going to force you to tell me anything,” She says gently. “We can talk about it when you feel like it— if you feel like it. I won’t push you but I’d like for you to know that whatever it is, I’m here to listen. And whatever you’re feeling, it’s completely valid.”

“Thanks, Ma.” I reply, sniffling.

My grandma reaches for me, patting my cheek affectionately.

“Your work for that fashion company might be under a different name but it’s still you, hija. It’s still Mahalia Hartt, don’t forget that.”