At my grandson’s baby shower, my daughter-in-law picked up the blanket I had spent four months knitting and dropped it into the trash.
“We only use designer things here,” Madison said.
Then she smiled.
Her friend’s phone was still raised near the dessert table, recording everything.
The expensive gifts.
The laughter.
The ribbons.
And now, my humiliation.
I watched my hand-knitted blanket disappear into a bin as nearly twenty people stood around the living room pretending they hadn’t seen what had happened.
Nobody defended me.
Nobody said anything.
My son, Kyle, stood near the punch bowl with a paper cup in his hand, his face turning red.
I could have made a scene.
I could have reminded Madison that the blanket wasn’t just a piece of wool.
I could have told everyone exactly how long it had taken me to make it, why I had chosen cream wool, why there were tiny blue sailboats around the border, and why I had carefully stitched my late husband’s initials into one corner.
