The Aftermath
Maggie stared down at the heirloom, her hands hovering, afraid to touch it. Her cheeks burned red.
“Dad,” she whispered, but he’d already turned away. John came to me, extending his hand.
“Thank you,” I managed.
He squeezed gently. “No—thank you for remembering what truly matters.”
As the party stumbled back into motion, people approached me one by one—praising the blanket, sharing stories of their own handmade treasures, speaking of quilts and sweaters that carried generations of love.
Maggie remained silent, my box still untouched beside her pile of luxury gifts.
When I left an hour later, my head was high. My brother met me at the door, his expression full of regret.
“Carol, I’m sorry,” he said. “That was awful.”
I smiled faintly. “It’s okay. Your daughter’s lucky to have a father like John.”
“She is,” he murmured. “I hope she realizes it.”
