The Blue Cardigan
The doorbell rang at six in the morning.
I know it was six because I’d fallen asleep on the couch with the TV on, and the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was the clock on the cable box. 6:02. The sky outside the window was still gray. Nobody rings your doorbell at six in the morning with good news.
I pulled my robe tight and went to the door.
A woman was standing on the porch. She was small, maybe forty, with tired eyes and her hair pulled back in a messy knot. She was wearing a gray work uniform with a name tag still clipped to the pocket. Teresa.
Next to her stood a thin girl. Sixteen, maybe. Long dark hair. She was holding her elbows like she was cold.
She was wearing a blue cardigan.
I knew that cardigan. I knew it the way you know your own handwriting. Soft navy blue, with little pearl buttons and a tiny hole near the left cuff where it had caught on a car door once. My husband bought it for our daughter the Christmas before he died.
“Is Lily home?” the woman asked.
