I had never noticed it before.
I traced the letter with my finger.
For the first time, the shawl did not feel like an insult.
It felt like a question.
Still, I had no idea how important that question would become.
Nearly six weeks passed before Lila called me.
She had not spoken to me since the will reading.
When I answered, her breathing sounded rapid and uneven.
“Do you still have it?”
I frowned.
“Have what?”
“The shawl.”
Her voice was so urgent that I sat up straighter.
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“At my house.”
“Is it safe?”
I looked toward the bedroom, where I had placed it over the back of a chair.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
There was a pause.
Then Lila spoke in a much calmer tone, though I could hear the strain beneath it.
“I’ve been thinking about what I said at the lawyer’s office. It was cruel. I was emotional.”
“You were laughing.”
“I know, and I regret it.”
Lila rarely apologized.
When she did, there was usually a reason.
“What do you want?”
“I want to buy the shawl.”
