It was Ethan, my grandson, with a look on his face I had never seen before. His eyes, usually filled with warmth and affection, now burned with a mixture of anger and determination. He held my hand as if anchoring me to the spot, refusing to let the moment sweep me away with its tide of humiliation.
“Wait, Grandma,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. The room, still echoing with the awkward laughter, began to quiet down as curiosity took over. All eyes shifted from the quilt to Ethan. He stood up and let go of my hand, only to turn and face the room with a resolve that made me both nervous and proud.
“Everyone,” Ethan began, his voice cutting through the murmur like a clarion call, “what you see here is not just a quilt. It’s history. It’s our family’s legacy.”
