My Son Called at Midnight About the Blanket His Wife Threw Away

cloth.

Not thick.

Dense.

I drew it out and laid it on the blanket.

Ethan made a sound in his throat I can’t spell.

“Open it,” I said.

He looked at me first, asking permission for more than that. I gave him a small nod.

He unwrapped the cloth.

Inside were old envelopes, each dated in Robert’s blocky handwriting.

1996.

1998.

2003.

2011.

A cashier’s check.

Two savings continue reading …