“Get your hands off my mother!” The man shouted it before he was fully out of his car.

Mrs. Vance came home the next afternoon with instructions to rest.

I was finishing deliveries nearby when Marcus asked if I could stop by. I arrived to find Mrs. Vance at her dining table with her knitting bag open. She looked tired, but she had changed into a blue dress and insisted on making her own tea.

“I can pour it,” Marcus said.

“I know you can. Sit.”

He sat.

I stood near the doorway, unsure whether I belonged in this room. Mrs. Vance pointed to a chair.

“You found me on the sidewalk. You may hear the rest.”

Camille’s belongings filled the guest bedroom. Her shoes stood by the back door. She had not returned since the hospital visit, though Marcus had asked her to come talk.

Mrs. Vance opened a notebook. Each page held the name of a blanket buyer, the color, the date promised, and the price. Three entries had been marked “collected” in Camille’s handwriting.

“Do you have the shop’s receipts?” Marcus asked.

“In the drawer.”

He found them beneath a stack of envelopes. The amounts matched the notebook. Together they came to almost twelve hundred dollars.

“That’s more than supplies,” he said.

“I know.”

Mrs. Vance looked at me.

“I wasn’t walking four blocks because I couldn’t afford thread. I was walking because Camille wouldn’t give me my money, and I couldn’t get my car.”

Marcus lowered his head.

“I sent her money for your groceries last month.”

“How much?”

“Five hundred.”

“I didn’t know.”

She said it gently. Marcus looked as though he wished she had shouted.

We checked the papers she wanted to see. Her house was in her name. Her bank statements were in a folder. Camille’s name was not on the main account, but Mrs. Vance had signed a form allowing her daughter to use a separate account for the knitting business.

“I thought she was helping,” Mrs. Vance said.

The front door opened.

Camille stepped inside carrying a small overnight bag. She stopped when she saw us at the table.

“You’re home,” she said to her mother. “I was going to come to the hospital.”

“You had two days,” Marcus answered.

“I needed space after you accused me in the street.”

Mrs. Vance closed her notebook.

“Where’s my car?”

“At the repair shop.”

“Which one?”

“Mom, we can talk when you’ve rested.”

“Tell me the name.”

Camille looked at Marcus.

“She’s barely out of the hospital. This is exactly the sort of pressure the doctor warned about.”

“The doctor told me to drink water and avoid the heat,” Mrs. Vance said. “He didn’t tell me to stop asking about my car.”

Camille put down her bag.

“I lent it to a friend. He needed it for work.”

The silence that followed made the ticking kitchen clock sound loud.

“You told me it was being repaired,” Mrs. Vance said.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

“When will it be returned?”

“I’ll call him.”

“Now,” Marcus said.

Camille took out her phone but did not make the call.

“You never liked me moving in,” she told him. “Now you’ve found someone else to take your side.” Her glance landed on me.

“I haven’t taken a side,” I said. “Your mother asked a question.”

“She’s been pushing herself too hard over those blankets. I’ve been managing what I can.”

Mrs. Vance slid the notebook across the table.

“Then tell me when you’ll transfer what the shop paid.”

“I used some of it for expenses here.”

“Which expenses?” Marcus asked.

Camille started listing groceries, gas, and household items. Mrs. Vance opened her bank statements and pointed to charges she had already paid for groceries. Marcus asked about the money he had sent. Camille said she had used it for repairs, then remembered the car had not been repaired.

Her answers kept changing.

I did not need to argue with her. The papers were on the table.

Mrs. Vance pushed back her chair.

“I want the account records,” she said. “And I want the name of the person who has my car.”

“You can’t throw me out without somewhere to go.”

“I didn’t say that. I said I want the truth.”

Camille stared at her mother. For a moment, I thought she might answer. Instead, she picked up her bag and went upstairs.

Marcus moved to follow, but Mrs. Vance stopped him.

“Let her settle,” she said. “We have enough to do.”

He looked at the bank papers.

“I’ll call the shop that sells your blankets.”

“I’ll call them,” she said. “It’s my work.”

She took the phone and spoke to the shop owner herself. The owner confirmed the three payments and said another blanket was due on Friday. Mrs. Vance asked her to send copies of every receipt.

I stood to leave. Before I reached the door, she called my name.

“Isaiah. The blanket I’m finishing is blue. It’s for a little girl whose mother orders one every birthday.”

I looked at the thread in her basket. I had thought it was an ordinary errand. It was part of a promise Mrs. Vance meant to keep.

“Then I hope you get to finish it,” I said.

“I will.”

As I stepped onto the porch, Marcus followed me.

“I should’ve noticed sooner.”

“You’re noticing now.”

He looked back through the window. His mother was already sorting the blue thread.