Harold lowered himself into the chair beside Craig and told the story plainly. Decades ago, he had done the very same thing, and Joan had sewn the socks with tears on her face. She never forgave him, though she stayed for the children. He spent thirty years watching her go quiet, and he finally understood what he had cost them both. He begged Craig not to repeat it.

Joan then placed the thimble on my blanket and said it was mine, if I wanted it. Craig stared at the floor and, for the first time, said nothing clever. His shoulders shook. He apologized to me, badly at first, then properly, admitting he had never once thought about what my days looked like. He had simply assumed the work happened by itself. Joan told him that was exactly the problem.

I did not forgive him on the spot. I told him the socks would go in the trash, and the shirts could be taken to a tailor at his own expense. Then I said that when I came home, he would learn the washing machine, cook three dinners a week, and take the night feeds on weekends. If he refused, my daughter and I would stay with Joan. Craig nodded, whispering that he understood.

He kept his word, slowly and clumsily, burning rice and shrinking a sweater. Harold taught him to sew a button, and Joan watched without a word. When our daughter turned one, Craig mended her stuffed rabbit himself, and I kept the thimble on my windowsill. Now Joan visits every Sunday, and Harold and I laugh as Craig washes the dishes.