Dottie was pointing to the pocket of the red sweater that Margaret’s grandmother had made for her many Christmases ago. It had seen better days—Margaret wore it frequently to the Navy Yard, and it had caught on her work more times than she cared to count. She missed her grandmother, having lost her two years ago to pneumonia, and the sweater was a warm reminder of the woman she’d loved. Margaret still felt the void at the dinner table every night as her grandmother’s seat remained empty. And now John’s.

She saw the problem that Dottie was pointing to. A piece of the yarn had come loose and had wound its way around the gray wool skein. The last row of Margaret’s stitching had the beginnings of an unintentional red border.

“Looks kind of nice, if you ask me,” offered Gladys.

Dottie stood up to inspect the work. “I think she’s right, Mags. It dresses it up a little bit. Makes it stand out.” She dug through her bag. “I don’t have a red skein, but I have a yellow one if you want to make a border on purpose.” She held it up.

Margaret took it from her hand but wasn’t convinced as she put it next to the sock. There was something dull about it. Yellow on gray. Whereas the red reminded her of some of the flashiest dancing shoes her parents used to make.

She shook her head and gave the yellow back to Dottie. Then she tugged on her sweater, loosening the yarn even more.

“I’m going to stick with the red. For all the socks I make. It will be like having my signature on it.”

“Oh, Margaret!” exclaimed Dottie. “What do you mean? That’s your favorite sweater!”

Margaret’s heart beat faster as she doubted herself, but she knew deep down that this was something she had to do. “That’s why. It’s because it’s my favorite. What if this little sacrifice means something? Like the amount of our effort somehow elevates theirs?”

Gladys set her project down on her lap. “Like it’s in the stars. The more good you put out there, the more comes down to them.”

“Or”—Dottie seemed enthusiastic about the idea now—“it’s like sending them a bit of your grandmother’s goodwill. Letting her be their guardian angel too.”

Margaret smiled. “Yes. Exactly like that.”

“I like it. And so would John.”