“Lila, this isn’t the time.”
“When would be the right time?” she replied. “We’re here to discuss what Mother wanted. Apparently, she wanted Clara to have an old blanket.”
“It’s a shawl,” I said quietly.
Lila smiled.
“Of course. Forgive me. An old shawl.”
The lawyer gave her a disapproving look, but she ignored him.
My hands rested in my lap as I stared at the cardboard box.
The shawl had belonged to my mother for as long as I could remember.
It was once a deep shade of violet, though years of use had faded it to a soft gray-purple. Threads hung loose from the edges. One corner had been repaired with uneven stitches, and the fabric had grown thin in several places.
It looked worthless.
That was the truth.
No collector would have wanted it.
No auction house would have accepted it.
Even a charity shop might have thrown it away.
