**The Awkward Daughter**
“Lottie, you’ve brought more of your rag nonsense home again, haven’t you?” Mum sighed, arms crossed in the doorway.
“It’s not nonsense. It’s velvet scraps—they were going to throw them out anyway—”
“And they should’ve! How many times do I have to say it? Sewing isn’t a job, it’s a hobby! You’d be better off picking up extra shifts. Maybe then we could finally afford a new washing machine.”
Lottie said nothing. She hung up her coat and slipped into her room while Mum kept grumbling in the kitchen. Her twin sisters, Daisy and Millie, snickered over their phones.
“She’s playing dress-up again!” Millie called out.
“Move over, Vera Wang—here comes Lottie-Lou!” Daisy giggled.
Lottie sat by the window, pulling the blue velvet and gold lace from her bag. The fabric slipped through her fingers like water. She could already see the dress—flowing, off-the-shoulder, with an asymmetrical hem. It’d be real. Magic.
By day, she worked at a furniture factory. Officially, she was an assembler. Unofficially? The “workshop oddball”—always with pins in her pocket, pencils behind her ear, and a work coat decorated with homemade brooches.
“Lottie, did you make that brooch yourself?” Vera, the floor manager, once asked.
“Yeah. Plastic cap and some beads.”
“You’ve got a gift. Shame no one sees it.”
“Doesn’t matter. I know what I want.”
Lottie worked fast. After her shift, she’d visit her friend Zoe, who worked at a photo studio in the shopping centre.
“Lottie, perfect timing! Just setting up the lights.”
“The dress is ready.”
It was the one—blue velvet skirt, delicate waistband stitched by hand. Lottie didn’t just look pretty in it—she looked like she belonged somewhere else.
Zoe snapped pictures, whispering, “You look like a fairy!” Later, she posted them online.
“What hashtag?”
“#FactoryPrincess,” Lottie joked. “Still stitched it between shifts.”
Two days later, Zoe burst into the factory.
“Lottie! You’ll never believe it—some designer from London saw your dress online. He wants to talk to you!”
“What? Seriously?”
“Look!” Zoe shoved her phone forward. “His name’s Theo Valentine. Works with celebrities, has his own showroom. Said your style’s fresh, asked for your contact.”
Lottie’s head spun. This couldn’t be real. But it was.
“Lost your mind?” Mum stood in the doorway as Lottie explained the offer. “London? They’ll cheat you blind! You’ll come home with nothing but debt!”
“Mum, this is my shot. I’m good at this. I want to try.”
“You’ve got responsibilities! Who’ll help us? You’re the eldest!”
“I’m twenty-seven. I deserve my own life.”
Her sisters rolled their eyes. Dad stayed quiet, then muttered,
“Dreams don’t pay bills.”
Lottie shut herself in her room. Her chest ached. But she looked at her sketches, her sewing machine, the pile of scraps—and knew she’d go.
Theo met her at the station, wearing a chunky knit and trainers.
“Lottie? Finally. Let’s go—we’ve got work to do.”
The showroom was in a converted loft—all light, mannequins, and floor-length mirrors. Like something from a film.
“I want a capsule collection from you. Five or six pieces. You’ve got an eye for fabric. That’s rare. And taste. We’ll handle the rest.”
“You’re sure?”
“More than you are.”
Lottie nodded. By morning, she was sewing. She slept in the studio, lived on sandwiches, and barely rested. The dresses came to life—light as air, bold as dreams.
Theo watched her, grinning.
“You’re not just a designer. You’re a poet with fabric.”
A month later, the private show began. Editors, bloggers, a few minor celebs. Lottie trembled backstage—until the first model stepped out. The room went still.
The dresses weren’t flashy or forced. Just soft light, clean lines, and every stitch made with care.
After, a magazine editor approached her.
“This is… magic. Who *are* you?”
“Me? Just Lottie from the factory.”
“No. You’re *something*.”
She went home two months later—with an internship contract and press clippings.
Mum met her in silence. Then:
“Millie reckoned you might find work at the new factory. Proper job, not this London nonsense.”
“Mum, I’m not staying. I’m here for my machine. My sketches. And to say goodbye.”
“So you’re abandoning us?!”
“I’m not. I’m just… moving forward. I want to *live*, not just survive.”
Dad finally spoke.
“Lottie… we were scared you’d get lost. But you… you found yourself.”
She hugged him, packed her things, and left. The door shut softly—not in anger, but quiet understanding.
That evening, she was back in London. Tea in hand, Theo laughing at the “Vera Wang” jibe.
“Bet they’d eat their words now!”
“Maybe one day.”
“For now? You’re still a princess. Just a real one this time.”
Lottie smiled. It was only the beginning. But the hardest part was over.
She’d stepped out of the factory—and lit up. And she wouldn’t fade.
Six months later, “Lottie-Lou” was just Lottie Archer, teaching a masterclass at a London design school. Twenty girls watched—some eager, some sceptical.
“Fashion isn’t just clothes. It’s how you tell the world, *This is me*. And if they say you don’t fit? *They’re* the ones not looking right.”
After, a girl with blue hair approached.
“Thank you. I thought… I didn’t belong here. No money, no connections. Just an old machine and some fabric.”
“That’s all I had,” Lottie said. “Just start. And message me if you need help.”
Back in her tiny studio—just a table, mannequins, and sunset through the window—she brewed tea. A contract sat nearby: a gallery in Edinburgh wanted her dresses for an exhibit on “new femininity.”
She still couldn’t believe it. But she wasn’t afraid anymore.
A message from Zoe popped up:
*You’ve got a fan club! Girl from my old school—Mia—wants to chat. Says you’re her inspo. Can I give her your Insta?*
Lottie grinned. *Go for it.*
Three days later, Mia arrived—small, sharp-eyed, with hands that brought fabric to life. She had a folder of sketches.
“I know you’re busy… just… look?”
Lottie looked. And froze. The designs were fearless.
“Do you study this?”
“No. Mum says it’s stupid. I sew at night. Clean at the factory, take scraps home. Made a few dresses—want to see?”
“Show me.”
Next day, Mia returned with a suitcase. Inside: one dress—black, patchwork, like shadows in moonlight. Another—white, airy, hand-embroidered. Lottie held her breath.
“Want a space in my studio? And—if you’re up for it—a spot in the Edinburgh exhibit.”
Mia burst into tears.
“You… mean it? I thought this only happened in films…”
“It happens. Especially to stubborn ones.”
The Edinburgh show was in a grand hall. The dresses stood like they were breathing. Especially Mia’s—centre stage. No one knew who made it. Lottie watched critics whisper: *Who sewed this? She’s got a future.*
Later, she asked Mia:
“Ready to claim it?”
“Not yet. Let them think it’s yours. I’m scared.”
“Okay. But one day, you’ll step out.”
Mum called after the exhibit.
“Big star now, eh? Forgotten your family?”
“Mum, I call. I send money. Millie and I text.”
“Doesn’t count. You’re in papers, online. And we’re just… here. Shame on you.”
“Mum… I didn’t leave you. I just… I’m not just yours anymore. I’m *mine* too.”
“You sound like a stranger.”
Lottie’s chest ached. But she didn’t apologise.
“I love you. Even if you don’t get it.”
At an open studio day, a journalist—sharp-eyed, loud—asked:
“How’d you make it? No London rootsShe looked at the woman, then at the room full of girls sketching, stitching, dreaming, and simply said, “I made it by refusing to believe I couldn’t.”
