I had washed it hundreds of times. I had wrapped Claire in it during fevers, packed it for family vacations, and laid it across her knees the night she left for college.

I had never wondered who had sewn the flower.

“One corner kept fraying at the hospital,” Rose said. “I fixed it during a break.”

Her finger hovered over the embroidery.

“I wanted to leave something small enough not to interfere.”

The bell above the diner entrance rang once more.

Claire walked inside.

Richard had texted her from the parking lot, saying only that we needed to talk. She spotted us, then slowed when she noticed the blanket in my hands.

“Why do you have that, Mom?”

She joined us in the booth and looked from Richard to me.

I placed the photograph in front of her.

Claire examined it.

“That’s my blanket.”

Then she looked at Rose.