- triggerwarning -
I plunked down into the leather couch and tugged the patchwork quilt over my legs. Maria, my ex-wife, made it during the five long years of our marriage. She made it for Amy, our little daughter.
I petted the fabric, fingers tracing the sewed areas, for the hundredths time, maybe for the hundred-thousandths time by now…
It had been vibrant and colorful, with the reds and blues and yellows thoughtfully arranged on twenty to thirty-five inches. Baby animals playing under the stars and the moon. Pink hearts lined beneath those little paws. My fingertips knew all the stitches.
It was one of Maria’s wonderful pieces. You could feel how she poured her heart, her soul, into it. Like she did with Amy. Now it was dirty, soiled with life and death, but I’d never dare to wash it.