Est. in her closet
Once a month, a small pile of very good old clothes leaves her closet. Coats with weight to them. Knits worth the mending. Tailoring nobody makes anymore.
There is a closet in Brooklyn.
The name
Named for my mother.
Mildred bought once and kept forever. She could tell a good coat across a room and would not be talked out of it. I learned to shop standing in her closet, hands lost in sleeves that were too long for me.
Everything here is found the same way she bought it — slowly, one piece at a time, only if it is worth carrying home.
Her daughter
How it works
Note
No account. No app. An email address is enough.
The next letter goes out on the first.
Nothing is held back for the site, because there is nothing on the site.