By summer, Daniel could sit through a meal without trying to persuade her that he was doing well.
He admitted when work was difficult. He described the humiliating business of negotiating payment plans. Once, he complained about how small his apartment was, then caught himself.
Ruth laughed before he could apologize.
“You’re allowed to dislike the kitchen.”
He laughed too.
It was their first easy moment in months.
In October, while Ruth sorted a sewing basket, Daniel noticed the old coat across her lap.
The lining had come loose near the repaired cuff.
“Let me buy you another one,” he said.
“I have another one.”
He looked toward the hallway, where a warm blue coat hung beside her umbrella.
“Oh.”
“I bought it in February.”
He sat down.
“Then why keep that?”
Ruth passed her needle through the fabric.
“Because it’s mine.”
He watched her for a moment.
“I’m sorry I made you wear it all those years.”
She stopped sewing.
“You didn’t make me wear it.”
“The tuition—”
“That was my decision. Your cruelty was yours. Don’t mix them together.”
He lowered his head, absorbing it.
Then she turned back the cuff.
Inside the old repair lay a crooked row of small blue stitches, clumsy beneath her later work.
Daniel leaned closer.
“What’s that?”
“You,” she said.
He looked at her.
She smiled faintly.
“You were nine. I caught this sleeve on a nail outside the laundry room. You heard me say I couldn’t afford another coat.”
His forehead creased.
“You found my sewing tin while I was asleep. Stitched through the sleeve so thoroughly I could hardly get my hand in.”
A sound escaped him, almost a laugh.
“I remember the thimble.”
“You wore it on the wrong finger.”
She touched the blue thread.
“Years later, when the cloth wore thin and your tuition was due, I put the patch over it. I left your stitches underneath.”
Daniel stared at the cuff.
