Instead, she disappeared.
That afternoon, she stood in our doorway carrying the beach bag I had knitted for her that spring.
Cream-colored yarn.
One crooked handle.
A row of uneven stitches near the bottom where I had made a mistake and tried unsuccessfully to fix it.
When I gave it to her, she laughed.
“It looks homemade.”
“It is homemade.”
“No, Mom. I mean really homemade.”
She grinned.
I threw a dish towel at her.
After that, she carried the bag everywhere.
Attached to one strap was a little brass keychain she had owned since she was six.
It was scratched, dull, and practically worthless, but Gia transferred it from backpack to purse to beach bag for years.
I never knew why she kept it.
Maybe kids hold onto things for reasons they can’t explain.
Maybe mothers do too.
Our final argument began over a green tank top.
That sounds ridiculous now.
