tossed my hand-knitted blanket in the bin.
There are sounds a person remembers long after they forget whole conversations.
The soft drop of that wool against crumpled tissue was one of them.
So was the little laugh that followed.
It was not joyful.
It was nervous, thin, and mean around the edges.
It came from people who wanted the moment to be over without having to defend the woman it had wounded.
I looked at Kyle.
He was standing near the punch bowl with his paper cup in his hand.
His face had gone blotchy red, and his mouth opened once, but no words came out.
He looked younger than thirty-eight in that moment.
He looked like the boy who used to stand in my shop after school pretending not to need help with his homework.
I could have shouted.
I could have told Madison exactly what she had thrown
