“When did you say that?”
Ethan set his glass down.
“Mom—”
“When?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
Claire gave a short, disbelieving laugh.
“You literally said, ‘Don’t worry, we can keep it in storage if it doesn’t match anything.’”
Ethan looked toward her.
“Why are you doing this?”
Claire folded her arms.
“You’re the one suddenly pretending this was all me.”
June felt something inside her settle.
Not break.
Settle.
The distinction mattered.
She had spent months assuming Claire was the source of most of the distance.
Claire preferred expensive restaurants.
Claire disliked June’s neighborhood.
Claire complained about the way June dressed for family events.
Claire chose the wedding venue, the guest list, the furniture, the condo, the engagement photographer.
Ethan had always been softer.
That softness had protected him.
June had interpreted it as reluctance.
Now she saw it differently.
He had been participating quietly.
“Storage,” June repeated.
Ethan rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.
“I didn’t know what it was made from.”
“You knew I was making it.”
“I knew you were making a quilt.”
“And you decided where to hide it before seeing it.”
His jaw tightened.
“Mom, you know Claire has a specific style.”
June nodded.
“I do.”
Claire’s expression sharpened, perhaps expecting sarcasm.
June gave her none.
“She has always been very clear about what she thinks belongs in her home.”
Claire relaxed slightly.
Then June said, “I didn’t realize that included people.”
