things.
So I repaired it.
Badly.
But well enough.
The sewing box lives in my house now.
Lily is too young to understand any of this yet.
One day she will.
I’ll show her the photograph of her great-great-grandmother at 101, sitting under an apple tree with a birthday girl on her lap.
I’ll show her the letter.
I’ll tell her about the six years we tried to have her.
Maybe not all at once.
Some stories belong to children later.
And I’ll tell her that before she existed, an old woman began making her a dress without knowing whether anyone would ever wear it.
On Lily’s second birthday, we kept the party smaller.
Just family.
Cake.
A paddling pool.
Too many balloons.
At one point, Lily ran through the garden wearing nothing but a diaper and one of Grandma’s old necklaces.
My mother started to say, “Careful with that.”
