asked:
“Do you want the blanket?”
I stared.
He had kept it.
Folded.
Clean.
The same gray blanket I used beneath the shelves.
“Why do you still have this?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is suspiciously sentimental.”
“I’m aging badly.”
I touched the fabric.
For years, that blanket had represented the worst three months of my life.
Fear.
Exhaustion.
Secrecy.
Now it felt different.
Not because what happened was good.
Because we had moved beyond it.
“No.”
I shook my head.
“Donate it.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
Then Mia, now six, ran into the room.
“What’s that?”
“Old blanket.”
“Mine?”
“Yes.”
She grabbed it.
“I want it.”
Of course.
Alessandro looked at me.
I laughed.
“Fine.”
Mia wrapped it around her shoulders.
“Why was it here?”
I looked at Alessandro.
Age-appropriate truth.
Always.
“When you were a baby, Mommy sometimes had to bring you to work because I didn’t have
