Addie selected a yellow one. “This is my favorite color.”

“Then you should wear it, because it matches your personality—sunny and bright.”

“Mama always got us new clothes for the first day of school.”

Caroline’s heart sank. She hadn’t thought about getting them something new to wear. The list of things she didn’t know about parenting was getting longer by the moment. “Tell you what. I’ll iron your shirts and pants so they look brand-new, okay?”

This did not appear to impress them. Addie yawned and snuggled under the covers with her doll. Caroline tucked her in, then Flick.

“You’re going to do all right,” she said. “Get some rest and I’ll see about blueberry pancakes in the morning.” She gave them each a kiss, a gesture that was, day by day, starting to feel more natural. On her way out, she took the kids’ shirts with her. She stood outside in the hallway, trying to force away the knot of anxiety in her gut. What would it be like for these kids to walk into their classrooms tomorrow, midyear, without seeing a single familiar face? Caroline really did wish she could give them a superpower—confidence to face all the changes in their lives. Maybe . . . She held out the T-shirts, feeling a tingle of inspiration as an idea formed.

Downstairs, her parents were cuddled together on the sofa, binge-watching some violent series or other. Caroline rolled back her shoulders, feeling a crick in her neck. “Kids are exhausting,” she said.

“Gosh, we wouldn’t know,” her mother said.

“Hey, you had five kids by choice.”

“Only because I couldn’t talk her into six,” her father said.

God.

“I need to sew something,” she said.

“Now?”

“I’m going to repurpose some shirts so the kids have something special to wear to school tomorrow. Is there an old windbreaker I can cut up?”

Her mom got up. “I’m sure we can find whatever you need in the giveaway bin. Let me give you a hand.”

“I don’t want to interrupt your evening—”

“No worries. The zombie apocalypse will wait.” She patted Dad on the shoulder. “Come find me if it gets too scary.”

They went to the spare room off the kitchen. From Caroline’s earliest memory, it had been a repository for their mother’s many unfinished craft projects—printmaking, scrapbooking, crochet, painting on fabric, wood carving. Mom was irrepressibly creative, always starting something or other, but with five kids and the restaurant, she’d been too busy to finish anything.

Caroline had already set up her own sewing machine in the room. It was a prized possession, an industrial workhorse she’d gone into debt to acquire while in design school. Back in New York, she’d had to pay a moving company union wages just to get it from her apartment into Angelique’s car, because the thing weighed a ton. Her father and brother had helped her haul it into the house.

“What are we making?” asked her mother.

“The kids just told me their mom buys them new clothes for the first day of school. So I’m going to make them something to wear tomorrow.”

Mom gave her a hug. “Ah, Caroline. What a nice idea.”

“They’re worried about starting school in a strange new place.”

“Of course they are.” Mom rummaged in a box labeled donations. “What did you have in mind?”

“Something red that’s light and slippery, like a windbreaker or some kind of lining.”

“Will this work?” Mom held up a windbreaker with the Sustainable Seafoods logo—Jackson’s company.

Caroline shook out the thin red ripstop garment. “It’s perfect,” she said.

“Great. Put me to work.”

“Can you stencil a slogan on these shirts?”

“You bet. I can use the kit I got to make personalized workwear for the restaurant. Never finished that project, but I still have all the supplies.”

As Caroline made a pattern and cut out the windbreaker fabric, she felt herself unbending, bit by bit. “This is my happy place,” she said. “When I’m making something. Anything.”

“You’ve always been that way,” said Mom. “Remember Grammy’s old treadle machine? You were about six years old when you learned how to use it.”

“I loved that machine,” Caroline said. “Everybody else was in the kitchen or garden, and I was in here making outfits for the dog.”

“You were on your own path.”

“I suppose. I always got the feeling I was doing something wrong.”

“And I always thought you were the most creative of the lot. Look at you now. A designer from New York.”

“From being the operative word. I can’t go back.”

“You will one day if you want,” Mom said. “You’ll return the conquering hero.”

“Right.” She focused on the task at hand, not wanting to think about her ruined career on top of everything else. Their silence was companionable. She caught her mother studying her. “What?”

“You’re so passionate. It’s inspiring to watch. Did you ever think of creating a sewing workshop, or . . . I’m not sure what you’d call it—an atelier?”

“That sounds a bit grand.” Caroline brought up something she couldn’t stop thinking of. “I heard there’s an outfit down in Astoria that used to make garments for the military. They’re going out of business. A woman I met at Lindy’s said they’re auctioning off machines and fixtures and so forth. The problem is, machines don’t fabricate. People do. I’m only one person. One person with two kids, in fact.” She sighed. “Suddenly my options seem to be very limited.”

“I have a suggestion.”

“You always do.”

“Instead of regarding the children as a hindrance, why not see them as inspiration? Look what we’re making right now.” Mom held up the shirt. “Not bad, eh? Those kids are lucky to have you.”

“Those kids are lost souls.” They were the most innocent of victims, swept up in the hidden turmoil of their mother’s life. “I failed Angelique. When I think of all the ways I could have helped and didn’t, I want to throw up. What if I screw up her kids?”

“Listen, they are not meant to be your redemption, Caroline. Don’t cast them in that role—it’s not fair to Addie and Flick. They’re meant to be children, and they have no other job than that.”

Caroline flinched. “Ouch. And you’re right. I’m just scared I’ll miss the signals with them the way I did with Angelique. I don’t know what they’ve seen or experienced. When I ask, they seem clueless. Flick says he never saw anyone being mean to his mom. And I believe him, because that’s his truth. But what I’ve learned about domestic violence is that the secrecy and the shame are almost universal. The isolation and lack of support. I wish I’d done better by Angelique. I’m afraid I’m not the right person to look after her kids. I lie awake every night trying to figure out the right thing to do. I haven’t slept soundly since the moment they landed with a thud in my life. There are times when I feel sure I can take care of them. That I can keep them safe and happy. Then there are other times when I have no idea what I’m doing, and I’m absolutely certain I’ll ruin those poor kids. And it’s not like ruining a design or a garment or a dinner entrée. These are two human beings. The stakes are too high for me to screw up.” She carefully folded the new shirts. “Maybe I should contact social services. See if there’s a family for them, one that would give them a better life. I mean, there might be a couple somewhere with the right skills. With job security.” Could she do that? Surrender the children to a more qualified family? What would that look like?