After stepping inside, she set her water down on the dresser and then went straight to Amelia’s closet, opening the door. Several jean jackets and a few sweaters were all that was hung up. On the ground were a couple pairs of sandals, and a pair of tennis shoes. Whitney did note that her two favorite sweaters were missing. So were her Chucks, but she’d probably been wearing them on Friday. Next to the shoes sat Amelia’s suitcase. Behind it, a flash of red. She shot her hand out, closed her fingers around the stiff, coarse fabric. Emotion, thick like peanut butter, lodged in her throat as she held up the small white jean jacket, streaked with red marker. Crude slashes resembling bloodied, torn skin. Whitney brought the jacket to her face, rubbed it against her skin, inhaled long and deep.

She closed her eyes, remembering.

“Amelia, what are you doing?” Whitney stood in the doorway to her daughter’s room.

Eight-year-old Amelia hunched over her brand-new white jean jacket—the one her mom had saved for weeks to buy—holding a red marker between her fingers. Whitney hadn’t caught her in time. The damage was done. The once pristine jacket was now covered in red marker, a messy coloring sheet.

Amelia lowered her eyes as if unable to look at her mom. Her lower lip trembled. “I told you I wanted a red jacket.”

It was true. She had told Whitney that. Problem was, she’d waited until after Whitney had bought the white one. And after she’d taken the tags off. And worse, after Amelia had already worn it and stained one of the sleeves.

Anger rose within her. She didn’t have the money to buy Amelia a new jacket right now. Opening her mouth, she was about to scold Amelia. But Amelia’s forlorn expression stopped her. Pressing her lips together, she stepped into the room. Nothing she could say would be worse than what Amelia was already feeling. Regret painted Amelia’s face.

Whitney knelt next to her daughter, reaching out to touch the edge of a sleeve. The pads of Amelia’s fingers were stained in red, dotting the places where she gripped the jacket.

“It’s not so bad,” Whitney said. “We’ll just call it shabby chic.”

“What’s that?” Amelia asked.

Whitney laughed lightly. “It’s all the rage, trust me.”

But Amelia wasn’t convinced. She loosened her grip and the jacket fell to the floor. Then she chucked the pen.

“It was stupid.” She crossed her arms over her chest, pouting. “I just wanted to be cool like Eve.”

Whitney had heard a lot about Eve, the most popular girl in Amelia’s class.

“Let me see if I can wash the pen off, okay? I have some stain remover that might work,” Whitney said, hoping against all hope that she could salvage the jacket.