The blanket was heavier in my lap after Kyle called than it had been when I carried it into that baby shower. Cream wool, blue sailboats, and one small set of initials: FM. Frank’s initials. My husband had been gone ten months, but his love for the grandchild he never met was stitched into every row. Before he died, he had saved nearly fifty thousand dollars in bonds and asked me to hide them inside the blanket, along with a letter for the child to open at eighteen. I had spent months knitting it through aching fingers because I wanted Frank’s love to reach forward.
Then Madison opened the gift at her shower, wrinkled her nose, and announced, “We only use designer things here.” She tossed my blanket into the trash while her friend recorded everything. I quietly retrieved it, kissed Kyle goodbye, and went home. That night, my son called. His voice was shaking. He had seen the video and noticed something hidden inside the blanket.
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