Teddy said he had carried that memory with him all these years. Nearby, Carol squeezed my hand and reminded me that her hearing aids worked perfectly well. She had heard every cruel word Joanne had ever spoken to me. I smiled, thanked them both, and stayed until the room finally began to empty. There was no grand speech and no need for revenge. The kindness I had offered had already said enough.

I left a little after eleven and sat alone in my car, holding the scrap of yellow-check fabric I had carried in my purse for years. I thought about Gerald, who would have grinned at the whole thing, and my mother on that porch step telling me never to confuse someone else’s cruelty with the truth. At last, I understood her. I was no longer the girl walking home through the dark, wondering what was wrong with her. I was Loretta Sutton, a woman who had built something of her own and learned that worth isn’t what others stitch onto you. It is what you make from what life gives you.