Growing up, every school year began with the same ritual: buying fabric for a new uniform.
Because convenience won every debate in our household, my mother always took the cloth to a tailor just down our street. The logic seemed sound—he was a five-minute walk away, a familiar face in the neighborhood, and always eager for business.
“When can we collect it?” my mother would ask, handing over the material two weeks before reopening day.
“Day before school reopens, definitely,” he’d reply cheerfully, chalk tucked behind his ear, barely glancing up from his measuring tape.
The day before school reopened, I’d walk over with high hopes.
“The pocket stitching is almost done. Tomorrow morning, before assembly. For sure.”
Tomorrow morning came. The shop was shuttered, or he was frantically working on three other shirts. That turned into “Give me two more days,” which stretched into “Just by this weekend.”
The consequence didn’t fall on him; it fell on me.
