She was warmer toward my father, more attentive.
He was pleased. He even started coming home more often.
Only I knew that the spark in my mother's eyes was burning brighter than ever.
She found Grandpa Abbott's old coat and sat down to sew the buttons back on, one by one.
I'd never seen her so focused.
Each stitch was tight and precise, like she was performing some kind of ritual. When she reached the last button, she paused. With the tip of her scissors, she carefully pried open a corner of the lining.
Inside was a silver recording pen. Old, well-worn.
Mom held it in her palm and pressed it against her cheek.
Then she tucked it into the turtleneck of her sweater.
"Lori," she whispered, "Grandpa's last words are right here."
Dad came home early that night.
He walked straight to Mom, his expression off.
"Were you in my study?"
Mom was arranging flowers. Her hand flinched.
A rose thorn pierced her fingertip. A bead of blood welled up.
"No." Her voice was barely there.
Dad stared at her turtleneck for a few seconds.
Then he grabbed her collar and yanked.
Mom stumbled backward. The recording pen clattered onto the floor.
"What is this?" He snatched it up.