Best not to dwell on it. She went for the chest of drawers and opened the topmost one. A rainbow of clothing met her eyes. To the left, various scarves and even a shawl. Whites, greys, browns, a black. She pulled out a grey one, but before she could command herself to close the drawer and retreat, she saw blue and red and pink and yellow articles to the right of the scarves, all with slips of paper pinned to them.

Christmas presents. She knew it the moment she pulled out the little cardigan with Zurie pinned to it. As if Maman had really needed to remind herself for whom the tiny thing was intended. But she’d always been meticulous about the oddest things.

Margot turned and set the gift on the bed, along with the scarf. Zurie would get it for Christmas. One last gift from her grand-mère. Turning back to the drawer, she saw that the next slip said Lukas. A new scarf in masculine blues and greys, with gloves to match. Moving that aside, she saw a beautiful shawl for Willa. Then stared at the last slip. Margot.

She blinked, and blinked again when the first one didn’t clear her eyes of their blurriness. At first all she could see was the bright red. A color she never would have chosen for herself, but exactly the sort of brilliant hue Maman always pushed her to wear. It wouldn’t be a shawl—Margot never wore shawls. It was too wide for a scarf. With hands trembling more than she cared to admit, she extracted it. Fold after fold lengthened. Sleeves shook themselves out.

A long cardigan, belted, open at the front, cabled on the sleeves. The sort of thing that would be perfect on a spring day, or an autumn one, when a coat was too heavy but the air too cool for nothing. The sort of thing that Margot had wished for, though the words had never crossed her lips.

But she’d known. Maman had always known. She’d known, and somehow she’d found the time to knit this without Margot ever seeing her work on it. The evenings when Margot had the night shift, probably. Or after Maman had shut her door and supposedly retired.

She took off the pin and let the paper flutter to the floor. She slid her arms into the sleeves. She buttoned the belt into place. And then she looked up, catching her reflection in the mirror.

A stranger looked back at her with short waves in her hair, Maman’s handiwork lending style to her figure, a flash of color she never sought but which even she knew suited her complexion. She wrapped her arms around her middle and felt her mother embracing her.