After the call ended, the blanket sat folded in my lap for a long time, and something cold pressed in behind my ribs.
Now my knuckles trembled as they knocked. The blanket was tight in my fist, every flower stitched by hand.
The door swung open. There he was. My Jason. Taller than memory had kept him, arms crossed, no smile pulling at his mouth.
He reached out and peeled back the tissue paper with two fingers.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I whispered. “Came as soon as I could.”
He did not move aside. His eyes dropped straight to the bag.
“What’s that?”
“For Phoebe. Made it myself. Pink, with little flowers.”
He reached out and peeled back the tissue paper with two fingers, the way a man might inspect something he found in the trash. His face hardened.
“Is that it, Mom?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Olivia’s mother bought us a designer stroller.”
