At my grandson’s baby shower, my daughter-in-law tossed my hand-knitted blanket in the bin: “We only use designer things here.” — I fished it out and brought it home without arguing. That night my son called, voice breaking: “Mom… What was folded inside that blanket?”
By the time I got home, the buttercream smell from that party was still caught in the sleeves of my cardigan.
I set my tote on the kitchen chair and stood there a minute, listening to the house settle around me. The dishwasher clicked. The little lamp over the stove buzzed. Outside, a neighbor’s dog barked twice and quit.