Laid out on my parents’ bed are two sets of black gloves, two black knitted hats, and two gray wool scarves.

“I’ve got a mission for you—a very important one,” my mom says like she’s letting me in on a secret. “It’s a beautiful winter day. There is fresh snow on the ground. Aunt Jo is on her way over.”

I hang on her every word.

“Your dad and I were thinking”—she pauses for dramatic effect—“that we should all go sledding.”

I bounce on my toes. “Sledding!” I squeal, clasping my hands together and looking up at her. My dad smiles at us from a cozy chair by the window where he’s reading the paper.

Mom lifts me up onto the bed. “But we have a problem, you see,” she explains. “Dad and I have mixed up our gloves, scarves, and hats, and before we can leave the house, we need your help figuring out which is which.”

I look at the black gloves, eager to help my mom. I immediately pick up the set of gloves closest to me. “These are yours,” I say. “They’re smaller.”

My mom smiles encouragingly. “And the hats?” she asks.

“Yours has the pompom,” I say, thrilled to have the answers she needs.

“Right,” she says, and sits down on the bed next to me to give me a squeeze. “Only one more to go.”

I stare at the gray wool scarves, hoping that something will stand out to me, but as far as I can tell, they are identical. I pick them up, turning them over in my hands.

“Do they feel the same?” my mom asks.

I nod.

“Smell the same?” she asks.

I lift each one to my nose, and while they smell familiar, I’m not sure that they smell different from each other. I stare at the scarves in concentration, wondering how I can unlock this mystery so we can go sledding. She doesn’t say anything more and I don’t ask for help; I know by now that she expects me to do my best.

Then I see it, the answer to my problem. “This one is yours!” I say with enthusiasm, and hold up the scarf in my left hand.

My mother beams. “I told you she would recognize the frayed edge,” she says to my dad, victorious.

I shake my head. I hadn’t realized hers was frayed at the bottom, but as I focus, I spot the torn bit. “No, Mama, your hair is on it,” I say, feeling proud.

She takes a closer look at the scarf and plucks off a long piece of wavy brown hair. She looks at me with a big grin. “My goodness, you are smart,” she says, and tackles me onto the bed. “How did I ever wind up with such a smart girl?” She covers me with kisses as I laugh.