"That's not an answer."
The following morning, he arrived home carrying a used commercial sewing machine he had repaired himself.
I stared.
"Dad."
He smiled.
"Don't get excited. It still needs a proper table."
I looked at the machine.
Then at him.
"How much did you spend?"
He waved one hand.
"Less than it would've cost new."
"Dad."
He looked toward me.
"Your business needs equipment."
I felt my eyes fill.
He continued.
"Mine isn't using this one."
I stepped forward and hugged him.
He held me tightly.
For a moment, I remembered being a child watching him repair machines in the garage.
Now one of those machines was becoming part of my own future.
I whispered, "Thank you."
He kissed the top of my head.
Then smiled.
"Just make sure you adjust the tension before you start ruining expensive fabric."
I laughed.
"Yes, sir."
The dress was completed on time.
The singer wore it.
Photographs appeared online.
Fashion commentators praised the silhouette.
One editor called the design "a striking example of modern American elegance."
I read that sentence so many times I nearly memorized it.
Then a major luxury retailer contacted AVERY.
And within six months, my life changed completely.
The retailer wanted twenty-four exclusive eveningwear designs.
Twenty-four.
At the time, I had produced fewer than seventy custom garments in my entire professional career, and nearly every one had been made to a customer's individual measurements.
The idea of creating a coordinated collection for a national luxury retailer seemed almost impossible.
I spent three days reading the proposal.
It offered an advance against future sales, access to production facilities, and distribution through selected flagship locations.
The money was substantial.
Enough to clear the overdue mortgage.
Enough to pay several months of medical expenses.
Enough to replace the ancient heating system that had failed twice the previous winter.
For the first time, I could imagine my parents living without fear every time the mail arrived.
But there was a problem.
The retailer wanted broad ownership rights over the designs.
Its original contract would have transferred much of the collection's intellectual property to the company, giving it extensive freedom to manufacture, modify, and market the garments without my continuing involvement.
I was young.
Desperate for money.
And completely unfamiliar with negotiations at that level.
The retailer's representative spoke pleasantly about exposure, prestige, and long-term opportunity.
He suggested that the agreement was standard.
That most emerging designers accepted similar terms.
That refusing would be foolish.
I nearly signed.
Then I remembered my mother telling me to build something of my own.
I also remembered the countless wealthy people at the hotel who expected service workers to surrender their dignity because they needed money.
I looked at the contract again.
If I signed away the designs, I might receive one substantial payment.
But the label I'd worked so hard to establish could become little more than a name attached to clothing someone else controlled.
I didn't know whether that would be wrong for every designer.
Some people preferred work-for-hire arrangements.
Others wanted the security of being paid without taking on manufacturing risk.
But it wasn't what I wanted.
So I asked a lawyer to review the agreement.
I couldn't afford the rates charged by major Manhattan firms.
Instead, I contacted a small business legal clinic associated with a university program.