Thirty years ago, I gave a freezing girl my grandmother’s winter coat. Yesterday, a man in a suit returned it to my doorstep. When he told me to check the pockets, I didn’t expect my legs to give out.
I was trying to decide which bill not to pay when someone knocked on my door yesterday.
I almost didn’t answer.
The termination letter from the warehouse lay open on the table.
Ten years of perfect attendance, reduced to two weeks’ notice and a handshake.
My daughter hadn’t called in three months. Last time we spoke, she needed money for her car payment. I’d sent it even though I could barely afford groceries.
The knock came again.
Louder this time.
I opened the door. Cold air rushed in. A man in a tailored suit stood on my porch.
Behind him, a black sedan idled at the curb.
“Are you Gloria?” he asked.
I nodded, confused.
He handed me a worn cardboard box.
“Someone asked me to return this to you,” he said.
I took the box. It was heavier than it looked.
“Who sent this?” I inquired.
The man didn’t answer my question. Instead, he said something that made my hands start shaking.
“Before I leave, I need to make sure you check the inside pockets.”
“What pockets?” I asked, tightening my grip on the box.
“You’ll understand when you open it,” he replied.
He waited.
Not impatiently. Just deliberately. Like he had instructions he needed to follow.
I set the box on the table and pulled open the flaps.
Inside was a coat… my grandmother’s wool pea coat.
The one I gave away in December 1996.
I hadn’t seen this coat in 30 years.
The wool was worn. The lining slightly torn. It smelled faintly of cold air and something metallic.
My pulse thudded in my ears.
“How did you get this?” I asked, looking back toward him.
The man stepped back toward his car.
“Please check the pockets.
That’s all I was asked to tell you,” he said.
“Wait. Who asked you to bring this?” I called after him.
He paused. “Someone who said you’d understand once you looked inside.”
He got into the sedan and drove away.
I stood there holding the coat, my mind racing back to that night.
December 1996.
The coldest winter I’d ever lived through.
I was 22 and broke.
Working double shifts at a diner to keep the lights on in my tiny studio and pay for my daughter’s kindergarten tuition.
One night, walking home in freezing wind, I saw her.
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