I stopped so suddenly that the man behind me bumped into me.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
I barely heard him.
My eyes were fixed on the bottom of the bag.
On one crooked row of stitches.
I knew that mistake.
I had cried over that stupid mistake in my kitchen years earlier because Gia wanted the bag finished before the weekend.
Then the woman shifted the strap.
A brass keychain swung against her hip.
The world tilted.
I started after her.
Every instinct screamed at me to run.
Another part of me was terrified of catching up and discovering I was wrong.
The woman looked about forty.
Dark hair pulled back.
Sunburned shoulders.
I had never seen her before.
That should have stopped me.
It didn’t.
I reached her and caught her arm.
“Where did you get that bag?”
She jerked away.
“Excuse me?”
“That bag.”
My voice was shaking.
“I made it. I made that bag for my daughter sixteen years ago.”
For a moment, she just stared.
People moved around us.
A stroller squeaked past.
Someone shouted for a child.
The entire world continued as mine narrowed to that bag.
Then I realized I was still touching her.
I released her immediately.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have grabbed you.”
Her irritation softened into concern.
“You said you made this?”
“Yes.”
I pointed toward the stitching.
