Chapter 2
My son, Ian Sutton, was born in late December.
The temperature had dropped, and the roads were icy. The taxi I'd called slid twice on the way. By the time I got to the hospital, my hand was shaking as I clutched the registration slip. Not from the cold, but from the pain.
The nurse handed me the consent form. "I need a family member to sign here."
"That would be me," I said.
She hesitated, and then passed me the pen.
I signed, and they wheeled me into the delivery room.
Ian was born at 2:17 a.m. He was tiny, but his cry was loud.
When the nurse placed him on my chest, I saw his face.
My heart clenched.
That brow bone, that nose bridge, and that chin.
He was a mini Andrew.
I closed my eyes for a moment.
When I opened them again, I told myself that this was Ian.
He carries my last name. From now on, he had nothing to do with Andrew.
The day we left the hospital, the snow had stopped.
I carried Ian, swaddled like a cocoon, and went back to the little room behind my shop on the South Side.
It was about 100 square feet, with a fold-out bed, a bottle sterilizer, and a secondhand space heater. Outside the window was the breakfast street, where the sound of cooking started at 4:30 a.m. sharp.
But I felt grounded. I wasn't afraid in a place with people around.
*****
The first two years were the hardest.
During the day, I opened up shop and made handmade fabric goods for babies—burp cloths, bibs, and little hats. I was at my sewing machine from morning till night, working it so much that the pedal lost its paint.
At night, I was on mom duty—feeding, burping, rocking Ian to sleep, washing bottles. Ian was fussy at night; sometimes he'd stay up fussing for three or four hours straight.
One time, I was rushing to finish an urgent order that had to ship first thing in the morning. I was sewing until 1 a.m. when Ian suddenly got a fever.
I checked his temperature with one hand and kept the sewing machine going with the other.
The thermometer read 101.7°F.
I turned off the machine, grabbed Ian, and rushed to the community clinic. The streets were empty at 1:30 a.m.
The doctor on duty said it was nothing serious, just a cold. He prescribed some fever medicine and told me to keep an eye on him.
By the time we got back to the shop, it was already 2 a.m., and Ian had finally fallen asleep.
I glanced at the half-finished order on the sewing machine, sat down, and kept sewing.
Tears fell onto the fabric. I wiped them away and kept sewing.
No one was there to help. But I didn't need anyone.
Crying wouldn't change anything. The fabric wouldn't stitch itself into finished goods, Ian's fever wouldn't go away by itself, and life wouldn't get better on its own.
Ian never gave me any trouble. It was almost as if he could sense how tough things were for me, so he rarely fussed.
While other kids were rolling around the playground begging for toys, Ian would quietly hang out in the corner of my shop, stacking fabric scraps by color into neat little squares.
At two, he'd pass me the scissors without me asking.
At three, he could already tell cotton from linen.
When he was four, he squatted next to me while I was making a fabric elephant and suddenly said, "Mom, I'm going to build a robot to help you cut the threads. Your hands are covered in red marks from the scissors."
I put down the scissors and pulled him into my arms.
I smiled, but my nose tingled and my eyes burned with emotion.
Ian was the only light in all my dark nights.
*****
By the third year, business at the shop finally started to pick up.
At first, it was just a few neighbors from down the alley who would drop by to pick up a couple of burp cloths.
One day, a mom blogger walked by, took a quick video, and posted it online. The comments section blew up with people asking for the link, and my inbox was flooded.
After that, baby brands started coming to me, asking me to make products for them. Malls invited me to set up stalls at their markets. Even designers wanted to team up for special collaborations.
Finally, I moved out of the little alley on the South Side.
I set up my own studio on an entire floor downtown, and made my brand, Late Sequence, official.
It meant late to the game, but at my own pace.
When Ian turned six, I sent him to the best private elementary school in the city.
The tuition was 40,000 dollars a year. I paid it without batting an eye.
By the third year, Late Sequence had gone from online to offline. I opened a flagship store right on the ground floor of a busy shopping area, selling all kinds of original baby gear and handmade home stuff.
By the fifth year, the brand was worth more than 10 million dollars.
By the seventh year, Late Sequence landed its first round of investment and began rolling out stores nationwide.
By the ninth year, Ian was nine, and I was thirty-one.
Over the years, Andrew had become a big name in tech. His company went public, and he was always on the cover of business magazines. He was riding high, living the dream.
Meanwhile, I'd become known in the baby and home industry.
We were in different worlds.
He probably never imagined I was still here in this city.
*****
One day, an invitation landed on my desk.
The Organizing Committee of the Landon Youth Creative Competition got in touch, inviting Late Sequence to be the special gift sponsor for the awards dinner.
We got these kinds of sponsorship requests every year. My assistant, Jane, dropped it on my desk for me to sign, and I was ready to sign off without a second glance.
But then I glanced at the list of partners.
Exclusive title sponsor: Glory Tech.
Andrew's company.
My hand paused.
Then I scanned down to the winners' list.
Smart hardware category, champion: Ian Sutton.
I set the invitation down and leaned back in my chair.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, the city started lighting up, block by block.
It had been nine years.
Even life was setting the stage for me.