Some pieces are soft—
like Mama’s old sari, faded at the edges
but still smelling of cardamom and rain.
I sewed that at first, because love should always go to the center.
She held me through exam stress, heartbreak,
and the silence of being the only daughter
in a house that echoes louder for boys.
Some patches are heavier—
grey suits and stiff collars,
the legacy of my father’s empire.
He built an empire from dust,
but forgot I was growing up beside it.
His hands were too busy shaking others
to hold mine.
Still, I sew in a strip of his favorite tie—
not out of love, maybe, but memory.
Because memory matters.
Even the cold ones.
One square is golden—my brother’s laugh,
the way he sneaks food to me under the table
when I pretend I’m not hungry.
He gets to inherit.
I get to represent.
Graceful. Polished.
Never too loud.
Never too ambitious.
Never too… anything.
There’s a corner with threads loose—
my dreams.
Art school brochures hidden in drawers.
Sketches under my mattress.
I stitch them in with invisible thread,
hoping someone, someday,
will run their hands across this quilt
and feel them.
The border is lined with tradition.
Beautiful. Intricate.
But tight.
It pulls the edges in.
Still—I sew.
Because even in a family that didn’t always see me,
I found pieces worth keeping.
Laughter at midnight. Mangoes in summer.
The way my grandmother hums when she sews beside me.
This is my patch.
My place.
Not just the heir’s sister.
Not just the daughter in the background.
I’m not a shadow on this quilt.
I’m the thread.