Elizabeth Ross

In a small Philadelphia workshop, Betsy Ross sat hunched over her worktable, her fingers moving swiftly as she meticulously stitched together the red, white, and blue fabric before her. The room was filled with the rhythmic sound of her needle piercing through the cloth, a comforting melody amidst the uncertainty of war. Suddenly, the door swung open, flooding the room with light “Oh hello I wasn’t expecting anyone to show up here at least not at this hour.”