a blue ribbon from my sewing drawer, the kind that came on a bundle of fabric years ago and was too nice to throw out.
When Madison reached for it, I saw her glance at the wrapping before she saw the gift.
That glance told me enough.
Still, I hoped.
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Age does not cure hope.
She pulled back the paper, lifted the blanket, and for one second the room quieted in a good way.
Even people who know nothing about stitching can recognize time when it is placed directly in front of them.
Then Madison’s face changed.
She wrinkled her nose.
Not a large motion.
Just enough.
Her friend, who had been recording every pacifier, onesie, and designer bottle warmer, leaned in with her phone.
Madison held the blanket pinched between two fingers and turned toward the camera.
“We only use designer things here,” she said.
Then she
