She was curled against my chest inside the faded blue knitting.
“Why this blanket?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve protected that thing through three house moves.”
“I know.”
“You wouldn’t even let me throw away Michael’s kindergarten lunchbox because you said it had historical importance.”
“It had dinosaur stickers.”
“It smelled like twenty-year-old peanut butter.”
“History isn’t always pleasant, darling.”
“Greg.”
His expression changed.
He reached out and touched the edge of the blanket.
“When I first picked her up, she was freezing.”
“So?”
“I needed something soft and warm.”
“There are twelve towels in this house.”
“I know.”
“Then why Michael’s blanket? And why was it already missing before tonight?”
Greg lowered himself into the old rocking chair.
