The parcel arrived during a thunderstorm.
Jada carried it to the table and opened the cardboard flaps.
Inside lay a red woolen hat and an envelope.
Her mother stopped beside the sofa.
“Who sent that?”
Jada read the return address.
“I don’t know.”
But her mother did.
The hat belonged to Jada’s childhood. She remembered wearing it on a seaside holiday, then losing it before they returned home.
The letter came from her grandmother.
I found this while clearing the cupboard. I thought you might like it back. I hope your exams went well.
Jada looked up.
“How does she know about my exams?”
Her stepfather remained quiet.
Her mother sat down.
“I sent her a photograph when you started your final year.”
“You said we weren’t speaking to her.”
“I wasn’t.”
“But you were sending photographs?”
Their argument had begun years earlier. Jada knew the broad outline: hurtful words, a disastrous visit, promises that didn’t last.
She didn’t know the small exchanges that had continued afterward.
“Does she ask about me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you answer?”
“Sometimes.”
Jada looked at the envelope.
“I want to write back.”
Her mother’s face tightened.
Then she nodded.
They agreed that the first visit would be somewhere public, with her mother nearby.
Jada arrived carrying the hat.
Her grandmother laughed when she saw it.
“You’ll never get that over your head now.”
“I was hoping you could fix it.”
“I knit. I don’t perform miracles.”
Conversation wasn’t easy all afternoon.
There were questions neither knew how to answer.
But before they left, her grandmother took measurements for a new hat.
“What color?”
Jada looked at her mother, waiting by the window.
“Red again.”
End of Narrative
