I go to the hallway closet where I stashed the bag from the studio. Navy tissue paper. I’ve been carrying it back and forth for two days, moving it from my desk to the car to the closet, trying to decide if this is too much. If it says something I’m not ready to say.
I hand it to Nick. “It’s for Mason.”
He opens it. Pulls out the jacket. Navy wool. Single button. Blue silk lining. He holds it up and stares at it and his hands go still and he doesn’t speak.
“It’s just a jacket,” I say. “I had extra fabric and—”
“You made this.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“Emily. You made my son a jacket.” He runs his thumb along the lapel. Feels the lining. Finds the buttonhole, hand-stitched, the kind of detail only a designer would notice. “This is hand-sewn.”
“It’s just wool.”
“This isn’t jus
