My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
“Exactly,” my mother said, setting her cup down with a soft click. “A clean slate for everyone.”
She stood up, smoothing the front of her knit top.
“Mia, come with me to the hall closet,” she said. “I want to give you that old quilt we talked about, the one from your grandmother.”
I stood up, my knees slightly stiff from the tension in the room, and followed her out into the narrow hallway.
The air in the hallway was cooler than the living room, carrying the faint, dry scent of cedar and linen from the closet at the end of the hall. My mother walked ahead of me, her steps quick and silent on the wool runner.
She opened the slatted closet door, the hinges giving a tiny, dry squeak.
“Here it is,” she said, reaching for a heavy bundle on the top shelf.
She pulled down a thick, heavy quilt made of blue and gray wool patches, its edges worn thin from decades of use.
“Your grandmother spent two winters stitching this,” she said, holding it out to me. “I want you to have it in your apartment.”
