Idid not grow up with an art background. I was born in the small city of Parral, in Chihuahua, northern Mexico and, as a child, my mind was drawn more to maths and science. I graduated from university as a chemical engineer, then got married and moved to the US in 1992 when my husband took a job in Michigan. I didn’t have a work visa then, but my son, David, and twin daughters, Nora and Lily, kept me busy. I loved creating things for them. I made great Halloween and party costumes – I turned the twins into flowers for a spring parade at school. When I decorated the house for the holidays, our centrepiece was a Christmas village made from miniature houses. It started out as a couple of snow-topped houses set on a side table, but over the years it grew. The children sought out miniatures at garage sales. Often, they were broken and I’d restore them. Eventually, every Christmas, the hallway in our house transformed into an intricate village of tiny homes and festive figures. At one garage sale, when Nora was 12, she saw an old wooden doll’s house. She had always wanted one of the elaborate ones she saw in movies, but they were too expensive. This one was $20, with a few pieces of Victorian-style furniture, so we bought it. For a month, we’d work on it together at weekends. I took out the old carpets and floral wallpaper, and created little accessories. I made pillows, sewn by hand, and tiny books printed on paper, cut and bound. Nora loved that doll’s house, but she outgrew it and our interest in miniatures disappeared. Around 2010, we moved to Texas and I gained a master’s in maths, then taught middle schoolers. I found crossovers between what I was teaching and my work on the doll’s house – scale, geometry. Five years ago, during a shopping trip with Nora, now at graduate school, we came across a “construct your own” doll’s house kit and bought it as a summer project. She dug out her old accessories and I spent afternoons making miniatures for it in the garage. I watched YouTube tutorials and collected household items: plastic tags from new clothes became bottle dispensers, milk bottle caps were turned into plates and matchboxes into drawers. I worked with paints, a penknife and watercolour brushes. During lockdown, we’d watch TV shows as a family. Nora loved Friends and asked me to make Monica’s kitchen. I bought paint, glue and polymer clay, and worked on it for two weeks, making the purple door, fridge, mugs, pots and pans, table and chairs, even Joey’s Thanksgiving turkey. Lily asked me to try a set from the comedy Schitt’s Creek, so I made the Rose Apothecary, the village shop: it had a wooden table, wood floors and white shelves, neatly stocked with little baskets and jars. My son decided others should see them and set up an Instagram account, Big Made Small. Soon, another miniatures account shared a cookie baking table I’d made, and hundreds of people started liking my work. We got messages asking to buy them, so Nora created an account on Etsy. We discovered a world of social media miniaturists and enthusiasts. I’ve seen recreations of Michelangelo’s art and one account posts tiny edible food, cooked in a working oven. I’ve recreated sets from Harry Potter and I Love Lucy. Grocery store ones are popular: I made a palm-size shopping trolley, full of American brands such as Ice Breakers mints and Hershey’s. Charcuterie boards are, too – I’ve sold more than 200 pea-size platters of cheese and ham. I don’t care about the money. When someone says, “It’s amazing”, that’s my reward. I’m happy to be part of this creative community. We’re so used to seeing things made big – towering skyscrapers and huge billboards are considered impressive – that when something is made small, it generates a different feeling. People are drawn to something so tiny, yet perfectly complete. Sometimes it reminds them of their own childhood. Maybe they wanted a doll’s house, like my daughter. Or maybe it brings them to a place of comfort, like the set of their favourite TV show. It’s a wonderful feeling to create that. As told to Deborah Linton