I flew across the country to meet my newborn granddaughter with a handmade blanket in my bag and thirteen hours of travel in my bones. My son took one look at my gift, called it cheap, and shut the door in my face. That night, I left something else on his porch, and by morning his life was on fire.
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.
