Noah walked in, opened his compass, and announced, “Your couch should go there.”
Dad looked at me.
I shrugged. “He’s the navigator.”
For the first time in weeks, Dad laughed.
It was rusty, but real.
We spent three hours carrying boxes. Dad had packed more books than clothes, more old photographs than dishes. At noon, he opened a box labeled “Julia” and pulled out the quilt Grandma Rose had made.
It was faded blue and white, stitched by hand.
“I thought you should have it,” he said.
I ran my fingers over the fabric.
My grandmother had made it from old dresses. A patch from the yellow sundress I wore in first grade. A piece of Dad’s work shirt. A square from one of my mother’s floral blouses.
Even broken families leave patterns.
“Thank you,” I said.
Dad nodded.
Noah tugged at one corner. “Can we use it for movie nights?”
