The cardigan felt safe.
Invisible.
Familiar.
My phone rang before I could put it on.
Mom appeared on the screen.
She took one look at me and sighed.
“Eva, why are you holding that sweater?”
“Hotels are cold.”
“Hotels have heat.”
“It’s practical.”
“No,” she said softly. “It’s armor.”
I looked away.
At twenty-eight, I lived in Chicago. I managed a successful marketing team, had friends who valued me, and built a life that sixteen-year-old me could never have imagined.
