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

Marcus took his mother to the craft shop on Monday.

I happened to see them while I was loading deliveries down the street. Mrs. Vance walked out carrying red yarn. Marcus carried the rest of her purchases, though she kept telling him the bag was light.

They stopped beside my van.

“She made me sit through fifteen minutes of choosing between two shades of red,” Marcus said.

“One was orange,” Mrs. Vance replied. “He has no eye for color.”

I laughed. It was good to see them argue about something ordinary.

Then a dark car pulled up across the street.

Camille stepped out.

Mrs. Vance’s smile faded. Marcus set down the bags.

“I’ve been trying to call you,” he said.

“I know.”

Camille looked at their mother.

“I wanted to speak without everyone watching.”

“Then you could have called me back,” Mrs. Vance said.

“I needed a few days.”

“You took my car.”

Camille’s face tightened.

“I was going to replace it.”

“With what money?” Marcus asked.

“I have an interview next week.”

Mrs. Vance stood still.

“Camille, tell me why you traded it.”

Camille glanced at the craft shop window. The owner had come to the door, concerned by the raised voices. I moved closer, not to join the family argument, but to make sure Mrs. Vance had a chair if she needed one.

“My rent was overdue,” Camille said. “I couldn’t lose my apartment.”

“You told me you had already moved out because the lease ended,” Mrs. Vance replied.

“I couldn’t tell you I was behind. You would’ve worried.”

“I’m worried now.”

Camille pressed her palms against her eyes.

“I thought I could take the money from the blankets, get back on my feet, and repay it before anyone knew.”

“And my car?” Mrs. Vance asked.

“They gave me cash after paying off the balance. I used it for rent and debts.”

Marcus took a step back.

“You made payments on a newer car for yourself.”

“It’s financed. I need a way to get to interviews.”

Mrs. Vance sat on the bench outside the shop. I handed her a bottle of water from my van. She thanked me and took a sip.

“I want you to tell the investigators what you’ve told me,” she said to Camille.

Camille stared at her.

“You’d let them come after your daughter?”

“I already reported the signature. I won’t lie to protect you from what you did.”

“You know I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know you needed help. I also know you took my car and money after I asked you to stop.”

Camille began to cry. Marcus stood beside their mother, but he let her speak.

I saw the craft shop owner retreat inside. There was nothing useful I could add, so I returned to my route.

That evening, Marcus called. Camille had agreed to meet with the investigator. She had also asked their mother to let her live at the house again.

“Mom said no,” he told me. “She gave Camille a list of places with housing assistance and offered to drive her to an appointment. Camille said she didn’t want charity.”

“Your mother offered help.”

“I know. Camille wanted the old kind, where she could decide what Mom knew.”

A few days later, Mrs. Vance invited Ruby and me for tea. Ruby brought a drawing of a blanket covered in stars. Mrs. Vance pinned it to the corkboard above her knitting chair.

“Would you like to see how a stitch works?” she asked.

Ruby sat beside her for almost an hour. She dropped loops, tangled the yarn, and laughed every time Mrs. Vance helped her start again.

When we left, Ruby held a little square of red knitting.

“I made most of it,” she told me.

“You did.”

“Mrs. Vance said I can finish it next time.”

My daughter had lost her mother when she was five. There were days I worried that every older woman who was kind to her would become someone Ruby feared losing. But I watched her walk home proudly with the uneven red square and let her enjoy the friendship.

At our door, my phone rang. It was Marcus.

“I found something in Mom’s records,” he said. “Camille has been telling the craft shop to send all messages about Mom’s orders to her. One buyer canceled because she never got a reply.”

“Does your mother know?”

“She does now. She’s angry. She wants to speak to the shop herself tomorrow.”

I smiled despite the seriousness of it.

“She will.”

Marcus hesitated.

“The canceled order was for a woman who’d bought one blanket every year since her baby died. Mom remembers her. She’s worried the woman thought she stopped caring.”