I laugh, because I can see it: my childhood quilt, soft with years and spills and naps on the couch. “Lemons,” I say, already sure. “I want lemons.”
“Lemons it is,” she says, delighted, already halfway to the sewing room in her mind. “A little tart with the sweet.” She glances at Ben, measuring him the same way she measures fabric. “And something from you too, so you better go home and look for some.”
Ben blinks, shocked at the easy way she’s included him in the tradition. “From me?”
Mom’s already nodding. “At least one square. More if you can. Doesn’t have to be big. Something that means you. Something that says ‘home.’”
He looks a little lost and a lot moved. “I… don’t have—” He stops, swallows. “I don’t have many keepsakes.”
The admission is quiet, almost like he’s ashamed to say the words. I know it’s true; I also know what it costs him to say it out loud.
“It doesn’t have to be an heirloom,” Mom says gently, and I suspect she knows a lot more about Ben than he was ever willing to share. “It can be a sleeve off a shirt you’ve loved to threads, your most comfortable blanket. It can be new, even. New is allowed.” Her smile is tender. “New is how families start.”
“I have an old Pint tee,” he says slowly. “First batch we printed when we opened.” A quick huff of breath. “It’s soft.”
Mom’s eyes warm. “Perfect.”
I can see him rummaging in his head, taking a quick inventory of the life he built with his own hands because no one handed him one. “There’s also a flannel,” he adds, gaze flicking to me. “A green one.”
“The one you refuse to admit has holes in the elbows?” Mom says, giving him a very Mom look.
“That one,” he says, a little sheepish.
“We can work around holes,” Mom says. “Holes mean stories.” She pats the quilt over her lap. “Half this binding is made of torn clothes and blankets.”
Ben’s shoulders loosen a fraction. He looks down at his hands and then back up, and there’s something in his face that makes me want to wrap my arms around him—wonder, maybe, at being invited into a tradition when you’ve never had any before.
“Okay,” he says, his voice steadier. “I’ll bring some stuff. You can pick.”
“I’ll find a way to use whatever you have,” Mom corrects, decisive. “A river’s made of more than one stream.”
He nods hard. “Thank you,” he says reverently.
She studies the ultrasound image one more time, then lifts her head, watery-eyed. “Do you want tea?” she asks us. “I feel like tea.”
“Tea would be good,” I say, suddenly parched.
“I can do it,” Ben offers automatically, moving already.
Mom intercepts with a small shake of her head. “I know where everything lives.” The corner of her mouth tilts into a smile. “Sit with my girl.”
He obeys, easing onto the chair beside mine.
When the door clicks behind her, I look at him. He’s still got that a surprised look on his face. I reach across the space between the chairs until my fingers find his.
“You okay?” I ask.
He nods, then gives the smallest shake of his head. “I didn’t know…” He trails off, searching for the right words. “Being… part of it,” he says finally. “Automatically. I didn’t know how much I wanted that, how it would feel.”
His fingers tighten just a little around mine. I turn my palm so our hands fit better and rest them on the arm of my chair, skin to skin, warm and simple.
“You are,” I say. “Part of it. Automatically. Not because of the quilt or because my mom said so—though she did.” The corner of my mouth lifts. “Because this is yours, too. Because I want you here.”
His eyes flick up, startled, like the words have opened something in him, but he just nods.
“You really okay?” he asks, softer.
“I am,” I say, and realize that—for this minute, on this porch—I mean it. “Are you?”
