He looked at the quilt.
“That’s a longer story.”
He handed it to me.
I touched the fabric.
One corner had a tiny stitched flower my mother had sewn herself.
I hadn’t seen it in seventeen years.
“My mother made this.”
Albert nodded.
“I know.”
“How?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he looked over my shoulder into the small living room.
“Are you alone?”
“My daughter is upstairs.”
“Then perhaps I should come back another time.”
“No.”
I stepped aside.
“Come in.”
He entered.
That evening, while Lily did her homework upstairs, Albert told me about Estelle.
She had owned a small hardware store for decades.
She had died several months earlier.
Albert had known her for years.
Not as family.
Not even as a close friend.
But as someone who had once helped him when he needed it.
After Estelle died, some of her belongings were placed in storage.
