Breathe. “I don’t mean to be impudent, but I need you to know something. Mama taught me to sew. It’s what she gave me, and I’m proud of that. I think she would have wanted me to help you make the new shop a success. She would have wanted me to sew for you.”

Papa scowled, and for the space of a long breath, she thought he might either start yelling or storm out of the room. Instead, he looked at her and jerked his chin toward her chair. She put the plates in the basin and sat down again.

“People talk,” he began. “When I married your mama, folks said things. About how it wasn’t right, a white man marrying a Chinese woman.”

She nodded. She knew about that, having seen it and heard it and sensed it as long as she could remember.

“There’s more. They said I was taking advantage. Making sure I had a . . . a servant for life.”

Her eyes widened. “But that’s not true!” she blurted out.

Even as a child, she had understood that her parents were partners in the shop. She had often heard them discussing business. As she grew older, she realized that Mama was not only a talented seamstress, but also had an intuitive grasp of how the right clothes could bring people great satisfaction—and how the wrong ones made them unhappy. Papa consulted Mama on every order he took.

Not a servant. Not Mama. She had been his true partner.

“They were wrong, whoever said that!”

He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “That’s what I think too. But I can’t change the plain facts. I’m white. She was Chinese. Folks will think what they think, and I hate to say it, but there are times when I wonder if they might have been right—if that’s maybe what some small part of me was thinking, without me even really knowing it.”

Hanna had never before seen that expression on Papa’s face. Puzzled, uncertain, full of something like sadness or maybe longing . . . but in the next second, his brow had hardened again.

“Is that it, Papa? Because people might say the same now, maybe even worse, seeing as I’m only fourteen?”

He shrugged. “That, and a fourteen-year-old girl shouldn’t have to work like a grown woman.”

This is my chance.

“But Papa, I love the work. It’s more like . . . like play for me.”

“See, that’s the problem! When folks are paying you good money, you can’t act like it’s play. You need to be responsible.”

She would have to try another approach.

“Well, Papa, it’s certainly not sensible to pay a seamstress when you’ve got one in the family,” she said. Desperation was making her bold. “You have to admit that. So I have a business proposal for you.”