“But you let me believe she was imaginary.”
“Yes.”
The admission hurt more because Richard did not soften it.
“I never wanted to forget that our family was built on kindness.”
Rose reached for a canvas bag beside her and pulled out a cream blanket. Claire’s coming-home blanket.
I recognized the faded satin border, the stain near one edge, and the loose thread Claire used to rub between her fingers whenever she was tired.
“Why do you have that?” I asked.
“When Richard recognized me the day you brought Claire home, we stayed in touch with an occasional Christmas card every few years. Last week he brought me the blanket because he remembered I was the one who stitched it.”
“Why do you have that?”
I lifted the blanket.
Near the hem was a tiny embroidered rose.
I had washed that blanket hundreds of times. I had wrapped Claire in it during fevers, packed it for vacations, and laid it across her knees the night she left for college.
I had never asked who stitched the flower.
I lifted the blanket.
“One corner kept fraying at the hospital,” Rose said. “I fixed it during a break.”
Her finger hovered above the stitching.
“I wanted to leave something small enough not to interfere.”
The bell above the diner door rang again.
Claire stepped inside.
“I fixed it during a break.”
Richard had texted her from the parking lot, telling her only that we needed to talk. She spotted us, then slowed when she saw the blanket in my hands.
“Why do you have that, Mom?”
She joined us in the booth and looked from Richard to me.
“Mom? Dad?”
I placed the photograph in front of her.
“Why do you have that, Mom?”
Claire studied it.
“That’s my blanket.”
“Yes.”
She looked at Rose.
Rose set both hands flat on the table. They were no longer trembling.
“I was one of your nurses, sweetie,” she said. “When you were very small.”
Claire’s lips parted, but she said nothing.
