““Several times that afternoon my mother and Vivie walked through the living room, past the double doors leading to Bec’s sunporch, and they’d glance at us from the doorway with curiosity, even a longing, or so it seemed to me, to join us. But they’d made different life choices: they had no Singer, no vocation to speak of, no need for a bedroom that was as much a studio as a place to sleep. What would they do out there, even if we made the room to let them in? That afternoon it seemed clear to me that Bec’s sunporch was a world apart from Vivie’s and Ada’s, a world of our own, and though I wasn’t the intellectual that Nina so clearly already was, nor the master seamstress Bec was, I had a feeling that day that I was something, something, mere doodles and all, that even my own mother couldn’t understand.””