“It’s cold outside,” she said softly.
“You can stay.”
That night Emily slept in a clean bed upstairs with her baby wrapped in a handmade blanket.
She didn’t sleep much.
Memories kept returning—her mother ironing her school uniform, cooking dinners, laughing in the kitchen.
And the image she could never forget:
her mother walking away with those heavy suitcases.
The next morning Emily woke early and went to the kitchen.
She began washing dishes.
Sweeping floors.
Cleaning tables.
Quietly.
Days passed.
Finally one afternoon Margaret approached from behind.
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