Inside the tote was the blanket I had made for my grandson.
Cream wool. A border of tiny blue sailboats. Four months of work in hands that do not work the way they used to.
That afternoon, Madison had lifted it out of the plain cream paper like she was handling something damp.
Her friend had her phone up near the dessert table, recording every gift, every squeal, every ribbon. Twenty people were packed into Madison’s mother’s living room, standing under soft balloons and pretending not to watch too closely.