I sat there, every eye on me, while my sister-in-law’s smile hardened into something sharp. “Oh… you made this?” she said, voice too bright, as if my blanket were a childish craft project instead of weeks of stolen hours. The room shifted. Someone coughed. I felt my face burn as she set it aside, still half-wrapped, already forgotten among the glossy boxes and branded bags. I wanted to apologize for not being richer, for not arriving with something that came with a receipt.
Then her father stood. His hand brushed the blanket with a reverence no one else had offered. He spoke quietly, but the room listened. He told us about the only thing his family kept through every eviction and every job loss: his mother’s worn, lopsided blanket. How it outlasted furniture, cars, and marriages. By the time he finished, my shame had thinned into something else—solid, rooted. I understood: love is rarely impressive at first glance, but it is what survives the party.
