The lamp above my kitchen table flickered as the needle slid through the soft pink fabric one more time. My legs throbbed under me, propped up on the wooden stool that had held me steady for thirty years.
The quiet of the little farmhouse pressed gently against the windows. Outside, the cornfields stretched dark and endless. Inside, tiny white flowers were taking shape in every corner of a blanket meant for a baby I had never met.
I reached for the phone the way I always did on Sundays, knowing there was no guarantee Jason would pick up.
Holding it up to the light, I smiled.
“She’s going to love it,” I whispered to no one. “She has to.”
I reached for the phone the way I always did on Sundays, knowing there was no guarantee Jason would pick up.
He answered on the fourth ring.