He laughed.
Then he noticed the dark square near the back.
He turned the quilt slightly.
“What is that?”
June went quiet.
“Your father’s work shirt.”
Ethan froze.
He touched it with two fingers.
“The green one?”
“Yes.”
He swallowed.
June watched his face.
For years after Malcolm died, Ethan rarely spoke about him directly.
Grief had made them gentle around certain topics.
Maybe too gentle.
“I remember him wearing this when he fixed the deck.”
“He wore it until one elbow tore.”
Ethan sat on the edge of the bed.
The quilt pooled across his knees.
His eyes filled.
“Mom.”
June waited.
“I’m sorry.”
She looked at him.
“For what?”
He rubbed the fabric between his fingers.
“For saying storage.”
June swallowed.
He continued.
“I didn’t know.”
“You shouldn’t have needed to.”
His face crumpled slightly.
“I know.”
June sat beside him.
For one second, she almost said the quilt was his.
The old reflex arrived immediately.
Relieve the pain.
Reward the apology.
Restore harmony.
Instead, she placed one hand over his.
