Then Madison’s face changed.
She wrinkled her nose.
Not a large motion.
Just enough.
Her friend, who had been recording every pacifier, onesie, and designer bottle warmer, leaned in with her phone.
Madison held the blanket pinched between two fingers and turned toward the camera.
“We only use designer things here,” she said.
Then she tossed my hand-knitted blanket in the bin.
There are sounds a person remembers long after they forget whole conversations.
The soft drop of that wool against crumpled tissue was one of them.
So was the little laugh that followed.
It was not joyful.
It was nervous, thin, and mean around the edges.
It came from people who wanted the moment to be over without having to defend the woman it had wounded.
I looked at Kyle.
