Mom never let me touch the tapestries as a kid. She worked on them every spare moment she got, sitting at the loom while boiling rice for dinner, picking out yarn colors while dressing me for school. When I came home, she’d have thread tangled in her hair.

“Grace, tuō xié,” she’d say, taking off my shoes. “And don’t touch the loom.”

Mom mostly wove scenes from China, her homeland. Her work was filled with clouded mountaintops, horses running through golden wheat, ruby-roofed cityscapes swarming with people. On my sixth birthday, she gifted me a tapestry of my own. I watched with bated breath as she unrolled it.

It was the simplest image Mom had ever made: a brown field, bare except for a tiny hut and some chickens. I said nothing, fearing punishment, but Mom must have sensed my disappointment. She sent me to bed early, tucking her gift over me like a blanket.

When I opened my eyes, I found myself on a straw futon surrounded by packed dirt walls. A woman sat nearby, weaving at a loom much like Mom’s.

“Where am I?” I asked, frightened. “Where’s Mom?”

The woman ignored me, working the loom like a farmer at the plow, pushing on the wooden lever to press the threads into place. At last, she cut the cloth free and turned to me.

“This is for you,” she said in Mandarin. “Happy birthday.”

As my fingers brushed the tapestry, there was a flash, and I woke with a gasp. I was back in my bedroom in New Jersey, with its box spring mattress and drywall. Mom hovered over me.

“Mom! I had a weird dream. I was in a house made of dirt. There was this lady weaving just like you. She seemed to know me.”

“That must’ve been Grandma,” she chuckled.

“Grandma?”

“You see, Grace, these tapestries are magical.” She pointed at my birthday gift. “That is the hut I grew up in. I took the memory of my own sixth birthday and wove it into cloth, to be passed on through dreams. Our family has practiced this art for generations. I'll teach it to you someday, as Grandma taught me.”

And so I came to learn of Mom’s most closely guarded secret.

Uncle Bao probably didn’t believe in magic. He wasn’t my real uncle. I didn’t even know my real father, who Mom had left behind in China. Uncle worked in construction and often picked me up from school, leaving me to do homework on the sidewalk until his shift ended.

One such day, a man approached me. He had a lean face and wore a dark cloak. The effect looked strange, like a wizard from my picture books.

“Are you Grace Tian?”

Mom had told me not to talk to strangers. I focused on my spelling worksheet.

“I’m looking for Lian Tian. I heard she weaves wonderful tapestries, and I’d like to buy one.”

The man smelled like smoke, and I found his gaze hard to meet. I leaned over, gripping my pencil.

“Why don’t you answer me, little girl?”

Panic bubbled in my chest. I edged away, and his gaze followed me like that of a predator’s. Suddenly, Uncle called my name. When I looked back, the stranger had vanished.

I told Mom after dinner that evening. “Someone was looking for you.”

She frowned. “What did they look like?”

“He had a black cloak and smelled bad, like burning eggs. He asked about your tapestries.”

Mom interrogated me for details, growing paler with each answer. Then she leapt up from the loom.

“I must talk to Uncle Bao,” she said, and hurried away.

*     *     *
Two weeks later, I came home to an apartment full of cardboard boxes. Mom said we were leaving. Uncle Bao argued and pleaded, but she was adamant, and so we moved from our sleepy little neighborhood to Harrison, a wealthy suburb forty minutes out from Manhattan. I’d never seen so many cars or people in my life, bustling through grids of asphalt and white picket fence. Mom stopped letting Bao drive me. Instead she sent me on the aging school bus, armed with a rickety cell phone for emergencies.

Our new apartment only had one bedroom, but the rent was much higher. It took Uncle a month to find another construction job, which was a ninety-minute drive away. He didn’t come home until dinnertime, and left again before I awoke for school.

Then one morning, the crew was understaffed, and Uncle tried to lift a hundred pounds of bricks by himself. A disc in his back slipped, leaving him crippled on the asphalt and ending his construction career. We won some settlement money, but something in Uncle had soured permanently. He began drinking more, and his words turned bitter—always aimed at Mom’s cooking, or the clothing she wore that day, or the noise I made getting ready for school. Noisy brat, he called me.

“He’s so cruel,” I cried to Mom. “Can’t we get rid of him?”

“Don’t say that,” she murmured. “He keeps us safe. Who else would take care of us?”

“You can,” I protested, but Mom shook her head. She hadn’t looked for a new job since we moved. Instead she spent entire days at the loom now, studying notebooks as she worked. She had dozens of them in her closet, filled with spidery handwriting.

“These hold historical events that your great-aunts and grandmothers recorded,” she said. “But ink fades and those memories will eventually disappear. This is our family duty, to preserve stories before they are forgotten.” Calluses dotted her hands, making them resemble those of a far older woman.

I hated what had become of Uncle Bao, but I loved Mom’s stories. She wove images of burning palaces, warring armies. In class I doodled junk ships in battle, imagining myself as Ching Shih, the pirate queen.

I met Theo and Bella shortly after we moved. I was in the school library during lunch, reading a copy of War Stories in Ancient China. Someone tapped my shoulder. I looked up to see two kids, a boy and a girl.

“What are you reading?” the boy asked. He had dark, close-cropped hair and wore a green Minecraft shirt. His friend peered owlishly over his shoulder, her hands hidden in her oversized hoodie sleeves.

“Uh … it’s about the Battle of Yamen. This general, Zhang Shijie, accidentally burns down his fleet and loses the Song Dynasty’s war against the Mongols. The pictures are pretty good, except Zhang looks too heroic. He actually cried like a baby when he realized what happened. I saw it myself.”

“Uh … alright,” the girl said. “Are you studying for a test or something?”

“No,” I replied, confused.

The boy coughed. “Well, I’m Theo and this is Bella. We’re playing Smash Bros. on my new Switch, but we need a third player. Wanna join?”

And so we started hanging out. Theo and Bella were Chinese-American too, and sometimes Theo invited us over for dinner. His house was huge, with a new flat screen TV and a basement room just for gaming. Theo’s dad was a dentist and liked telling funny stories about his drugged patients at work.

One day, when I got back from school, I heard shouting in the apartment. I ran upstairs to find Uncle standing in the doorway, holding an empty bottle. Mom faced him from the living room, her face stony.

“This move has ruined our finances and my health,” he snarled. “We’ll be thrown out on the street. Isn’t that enough for you, you stubborn witch?”

Mom’s voice was level. “Grace and I are not going back. It’s not your decision to make.”

Uncle swore and stepped towards her, raising the bottle. Panic flooded my thoughts. I leapt between them and brandished my ratty phone.

“Stop it! Don’t come any closer or I’ll call the police.”

Uncle Bao stared at me for a long time. Then he walked off, and I never saw him again.

“Are you okay?” I asked Mom. She didn’t respond, but her eyes were red and puffy as she led me inside. We spent the rest of the night in silence.

*     *     *
The next day, Mom called a handyman to install a heavy bolt on our door. Drilling sounds filled our apartment. Afterwards, Mom heaved the metal beam shut with a grunt. She looked ridiculous.

“Mom,” I said finally. “Are you scared Uncle will come back?”

She gazed at the giant bolt. I doubted she’d gotten permission for it. Then she sighed. “Well, you’re old enough now to understand.”

We went into the kitchen, where Mom grabbed a pot and began boiling rice for congee. She often made it when I was sick. “Bring me that tapestry there, next to the vase,” she said.

I obeyed. The tapestry looked very realistic, almost photographic. It showed a Chinese village square, perhaps from the 1960s. A pile of burning books sat inside, with columns of smoke spiraling upwards like messages to heaven. In the center stood a green-suited soldier, his face a mask of grim duty, aiming his gun at a kneeling man.

“As you know, we weave the tapestries to preserve history. But there are those who want things to stay buried. Some of them came after us in China.”

Mom passed me a bowl of congee.

“We lived in a small mountain village in Shanxi province. Few travelers visit there. But one day, several men broke into the house. They wore strange cloaks that flowed and shifted as if woven from the shadows themselves.” She shuddered. “They were looking for tapestries. One man beat your grandmother’s hands and arms with hot coals so that she couldn’t weave anymore. I still remember the way it smelled … I managed to escape with some possessions, but I never saw my family again. I fled China soon after.”

I gasped, horrified. “What’s so important that people would come after you and Grandma to hide it?”

“There is a certain Chinese politician vying for the open Central Committee seat this year. He’s spent the decade gathering support within the CCP. But his family has a long history of involvement in the country’s social and military conflicts, sometimes committing unspeakable acts to further their agenda. I believe he paid the shadow men to hunt us down again and erase anything that could hurt his chances.”

Mom was scaring me. I didn’t know what to make of her story. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her expression twisted like a madwoman’s.

“What are we going to do?” I asked.

She squeezed my hand.

“You were right. I am strong enough to protect us both. This is our family’s burden to bear. But you’ll need to help me. Be a good daughter and listen to me always, okay? In this world, we can only trust each other.”

I swallowed more congee, feeling it warm me from within. “Okay.”

“That’s a good girl,” Mom said, and kissed the top of my head.

Learning more of Mom’s secrets changed me. I felt myself standing taller, like destiny weighed upon my shoulders. I took a job at the neighborhood bodega, restocking sodas and potato chips to cover the bills. Mom wouldn’t leave the apartment anymore, so I went with Theo’s mother to buy groceries. These shopping trips filled me with guilt. She thought Mom was sick, and against my protests would always pay at checkout. Meanwhile, Mom labored at the loom with renewed urgency. I wondered if she felt the shadow men would burst in any day now.

I still saw Theo and Bella during study halls. I hadn’t told them Mom’s secrets. I knew I didn’t belong to their world, one without magic or tortured family missions. But I lived for those moments, joking about teachers we didn’t like or the new boy Bella was crushing on, just to keep the illusion going.

Until Theo told me they weren’t going to study hall anymore. They had a conflict.

“Test prep class?” I repeated. “Why? The school year just started.”

Bella stared at me. “Uh, the SAT? We’re seniors now, the college prep hunger games started months ago. Didn’t you know?”

“Oh,” I said blandly. “Already?”

Theo elbowed her. “Of course Grace knows. She just doesn’t need that stuff ’cause she’s not a dumbass like you.”

I laughed as Bella sputtered, but still felt queasy. At home, I found Mom at the loom as usual. I took a deep breath.

“I want to go to college.”

She shook her head as if warding off a fly. “What? Where’d you get that idea?”

“Theo and Bella.”

Mom frowned at me.

“Your friends are smart and ambitious. So are you, bǎobǎo. But you’ve a duty to uphold. What would college give you?”

I thought about the promises in the brochures Bella had shown me: new social circles, unlimited opportunities. Freedom.

“I could start a career and work a real job. Provide a better life for us.”

“What’s wrong with the life I’ve given you?”

This was where I messed up.

“It’s not my life,” I blurted. “Can’t I choose for myself?”

I regretted it immediately. Her face darkened.

“I didn’t have that luxury at your age. I didn’t choose the family destiny hanging over my head. You’ve inherited a great honor, and you should be grateful.”

She said something else, but for the first time in my life, I didn’t want to listen. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I turned and walked away, leaving Mom’s words dangling between us.

*     *     *
I cornered Theo at his locker. “I need help. I want to go to college.”

He furrowed his brow. “Is this a joke? I gotta get to class.”

“No.” I stammered, and the truth came tumbling out. “Look, no one in my family went to college. I didn’t realize I wanted to until you guys talked about it. But I don’t know where to start, if I can afford it, or if I can even get in anywhere.”

Realization slowly dawned on Theo’s face.

“Well,” he said finally, “Rutgers University has an agreement with the community colleges. You spend two years getting an associate’s degree, then you can transfer in guaranteed. It’s straightforward if you keep your grades up.”

“What, really? You think they’d take me?”

“Yeah, it’s just community college. Don’t worry about it, I’ll even help with all the paperwork.”

I felt a warm rush of gratitude. Maybe things would turn out alright after all.

That feeling didn’t last long. That evening, Mom came to my bedroom. A pit grew in my stomach. We hadn’t really talked since the argument.

“Grace, guòlái. It’s time to begin.”

I blinked at her dark silhouette. “What?”

“Your first weaving lesson. Didn’t you want to learn?” Mom’s hair stuck out at odd angles. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days.

The guilt knotted further, twisting in on itself. I had wanted to, once. But Theo was supposed to call soon and go over my college application.

“No,” I said. “I have to study for my history exam this week.”

“I thought you were excited to start. Isn’t this more interesting than schoolwork?”

“I’m behind,” I lied. “It’s just not a good time.”

Mom looked surprised, but walked off. As the door closed, my gaze wandered to the bedroom wall. The birthday tapestry still hung there, with its little hut and flock of chickens. I couldn’t shake the image of Grandma’s spirit residing within that fabric house, watching me.

In May, Theo got accepted to Princeton University. I’d also gotten into community college, so we got dinner downtown to celebrate. But while he kept going on about Princeton’s student dining clubs, and the Gothic architecture, all I could think of was Mom’s disappointed face.

“You’ll be fine,” Theo promised me as I poked at my food. He always made me feel foolish for doubting.

But it came crashing down when I got back to the apartment. Mom answered the door wordlessly, holding out her phone. The acceptance letter from NJCC flashed on the screen, and my heart sank. I must’ve left my email logged in at some point.

“You applied to college?” Mom’s voice shook. “Why?”

The jig was up. I summoned my courage. “I told you I wanted to go. Theo helped me.”

Mom slapped me across the face.

The sound seemed to echo forever. As I dropped to my knees, numb with shock, Mom yanked me inside and screamed.

“You stupid, foolish girl! What did I tell you about listening to me? How could you betray your own mother like this?”

Every word felt like a red-hot whip across my back. I couldn’t recognize the stranger before me, screaming, raving.

“When you’re done with school, you will stay where I can keep an eye on you. You will not leave my sight, speak to anyone, or even breathe without my knowledge—”

At that last sentence, something inside me finally snapped. I snatched the phone from Mom’s fingers. Taken aback, she cowered against the wall.

“I will do no such thing,” I said, surprised by how steady I felt. “You can’t choose for me. I will go to college. After this summer, you’ll never see me again.”

*     *     *
I called Theo, and his parents let me move in the next day. I never found out what explanation he gave them. Maybe they’d gotten enough hints about my family’s finances over time. That summer I stammered through mealtimes, fumbled with the laundry, and generally tried to stay out of the way. I wondered if they could sense my shame from running away. That I was a bad daughter.

Mom texted sporadically, first demanding I come home, then accusing me of betrayal. I’d become physically ill until Theo pried the phone from my cold hands. Every night I had the same dream: faceless figures breaking down Mom’s door, their cloaks of darkness extinguishing the sun. The sizzle of burning flesh played against my eyelids, over and over until Theo shook me awake, my face covered in tears.

The college semester started. I did well enough to transfer to Rutgers for the spring semester. On the day Theo and I were supposed to leave, a backpack appeared on his doorstep containing the remaining clothes I’d left at home. Buried at the bottom was my birthday tapestry, the one with the little hut on it. I winced and stuffed it back in. I’d had enough of Mom’s guilt-tripping.

His parents dropped us off at the train station. Theo hugged me and promised to visit over the weekend. Then we parted ways, and I boarded the train to New Brunswick.

When I stepped off the train, I found myself in a red brick jungle. Suddenly I was one of thousands of new faces, and a single wrong turn left me wandering campus for half an hour. After my first two-hundred-person lecture, I stumbled into the bathroom and threw up.

But gradually, that panic faded. Bella was my roommate, and she introduced me to her friends in the campus hip-hop dance crew. They visited during my work-study shifts in the dining hall, bringing gifts of pizza and conversation. Late at night we traded stories of home, argued whether Los Angeles really was nicer than New York. I could almost pretend my old life was fading away, like a bad dream.

The week before finals, Mom texted me. She wasn’t angry. She just said she’d been feeling dizzy, and was leaving the apartment for the first time in years to see a neurologist.

But don’t worry about me, she said. Enjoy your studies. Love, Mom.

It sent me spiraling, the guilt eating my thoughts as I laid awake at night. Would Mom be alright without me? Was I at fault, for making her worry and causing her health to collapse? My mind warred with itself. In my worst moments I thought she was faking it, weaving more stories for sympathy. Then I felt horrible, and the cycle of guilt would restart.

I tried to lose myself in school. I picked social work as my major and did an administrative internship at a juvenile detention center. The following year I helped some of the inmates apply for college themselves. In this at least, I could be proud: I’d rejected the future Mom had set for me, but still chose to build a better, kinder world for others.

*     *     *
I stepped off the bus, wobbling under the weight of the grocery bag. It was now my junior year, and the fall semester was drawing to a close. The sun was setting; a brisk November gust bit at my nose, and I hurried down the street. Theo was waiting for me at home, and I thought longingly of the red-braised pork dish we would soon be making. It would be our first cooking night after moving in together.

As I rounded the corner, a block away from the apartment, something felt off. The wind had stopped blowing. Everything lay oddly still and silent. My skin prickled as movement flickered in the corner of my eye. A man-sized shadow, drifting by the lampposts across the street.

The shape was gone as soon as I blinked, but anxiety was already thrumming through my veins. Like a ghost from long ago, I heard Mom’s voice again in my head, recounting stories of the shadow men. Burnt flesh. Murder.

I sprinted down the street in blind panic. Before I knew it I’d reached our front door, and the sight snapped me out of it. What was wrong with me? This was the real world, not one of Mom’s horror stories. I gathered myself and opened the door.

The first thing I saw was Theo’s frightened gaze darting back and forth over his duct-taped mouth. He huddled on the ground, his hands bound by rope. As I glanced up, I made eye contact with the man standing over him.

He had a perfectly ordinary, human face. But his cloak shuddered like a living thing, its edges wavering and insubstantial, and the smell of smoke filled the air. The worst part was his smile, eager and hungry. I recognized that look, and I felt it again, the raw fear of a young girl on the sidewalk.

“Hello again, Grace,” the man said. “My, how you’ve grown.”

My tongue felt numb. “What do you want?”

“No time for pleasantries?” He tilted his head. “I tracked down your mother, but her poor neighbors tell me she’s in a care home now. Too sick even to accept visitors, apparently. So I had to come to you, the last of the history-weavers. Do your family a favor, and put this tired legacy to rest.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The tapestry, girl.”

I shook my head dumbly. The man sighed and pressed his boot into Theo’s shoulder. There was a crunch. Theo gave a little groan that shot through my stomach.

“I-I’ll get it from my room. Just don’t hurt Theo anymore.”

The man smirked, knowing, as I did, there was nowhere for me to run. My legs felt like jelly. Theo was in danger because of me. Mom had found the courage to run when the book burners went after her family. I couldn’t even keep my hands from shaking as I climbed the stairs.

I searched my bedroom aimlessly. I hadn’t spoken to Mom in years—I didn’t have anything to offer the man. Then in the back of my closet, I found a ratty old backpack. It was the one Mom had given me for college, three years back. A bitter taste filled my mouth. After all the misery Mom’s legacy had brought us, I’d never see her again.

I squeezed the bag, and something soft inside it gave way. Confused, I pulled out a bundle of cloth. It unrolled, displaying a blocky brown shape sitting in a field. A sliver of morning sun crept over the shape’s roof. Chickens poked in the grass, oblivious to my grief.

As I looked down at my old birthday tapestry, the idea struck me.

I walked downstairs with the bundle of cloth. The shadow man had been waiting patiently, and his eyes glittered with greed.

“Hand it over.”

“No problem,” I said, and threw the tapestry over him.

The man yelled a muffled curse and clawed at his face. I hurled myself at him, shoving him to the ground as he writhed and tangled himself further in the cloth. He lashed out with a kick, and I fell back against the wall.

He finally freed his head from the tapestry, staggering back to his feet. He’d just reached for the gun at his belt when a peculiar change came over his face. First there was a look of confusion, then pure anguish while the tapestry worked its magic. I felt every woven memory flashing through him, forcing into him the weight of our family’s pain. Somewhere, Grandma’s heart was breaking too. The man finally sunk against the wall, sobbing.

I hurried over to Theo. His face was stark white, but I managed to hoist him up. We staggered out of the apartment into the cool evening air. I let the door slam shut, leaving only the sound of crickets.

“I don’t know how long that’ll hold him,” I panted. “We need to call the cops. Theo, give me your phone, I can’t find mine—”

He slapped my hands away from his coat pocket. Stunned, I took a step backward. Theo swayed, pale from the effort.

“Don’t touch me.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you serious?” Theo snarled. “Grace, who is that guy? Why’d he break into our place? You-you’re not with the mafia, are you?”

I opened my mouth. Theo looked so hurt, so confused, and I wanted to explain so badly. I owed him that. But the only words that would come to mind were the ones Mom had said over the kitchen table, so many nights ago.

This is our family’s burden.

“I’m sorry,” I said at last. “But I can’t tell you. It wouldn’t be right.”

“Nothing? Nothing at all?”

I didn’t move.

Theo’s face twitched, like he was ready to fall apart at any moment.

“After all these years,” he said. “I let you sleep in my house. But I don’t know you, Grace. I don’t know you at all.”

Then he limped down the sidewalk, and I watched as the last of the sun’s rays disappeared over the horizon.

*     *     *
“So he just walked out on you after it all happened?”

Bella looked glum as she swept up remnants from a shattered glass. We were cleaning up the mess left behind, first by the shadow man breaking in, then by the police barging in once I’d placed the call. Bella still wore her dance practice gear.

“Don’t take it out on him,” I muttered. “His arm got broken. I’m sure he’ll come around eventually.”

Bella frowned. I didn’t like the look she gave me, searching my expression, trying to pick it apart. “Tell me again what happened with the home invasion. Did you know the guy?”

“No.”

“Yet he was looking for something, you said. Something you had.” Bella bent to pick something up. It was the tapestry, still lying in a tangled mound where the police had tossed it.

“I told you, I have no idea what he was talking about.” I pinched my temples. A headache was beginning to worm its way through my skull.

“But that makes no sense. He targeted your apartment, tried to hold Theo hostage, and you don’t know why? Do you think you got mixed up with someone? Had a run-in with some criminals you didn’t know about?”

“Does it matter?”

“Well, maybe you left something out.” Bella fumbled with the tapestry. It was knotted up well and good.

“Why would I do that?” I muttered.

“Because you hide stuff from me and Theo all the time. Like everything between you and your mom.”

My blood turned cold. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do.”

“What’s this got to do with the break-in?”

“Nothing! We’re just worried about you!” Bella growled. “You flinch whenever we ask about your mom, you stopped hanging out with us because you were working at the bodega twenty hours a week, and you made Theo help with your entire college application in secret! You came to class with that bruise on your face! Did you think we never noticed?”

A flash of rage came over me. “That’s none of your business,” I snarled, and lunged for the cloth bundle.

She yanked it away. My fingers snagged on the corner of the tapestry at the wrong moment. The thread came undone with a wet rip, and soon a giant hole appeared in Mom’s work.

I froze as the tapestry drifted to the floor. The little hut was torn in two. There was a moment of silence as I stared down at the gap, an awful void hanging in time.

“I’m so sorry,” Bella choked. “Maybe we can fix it—”

“Get out!” I dropped to the floor, grasping desperately at the fallen cloth. “Why didn’t you listen to me, you clumsy moron? Don’t you realize I might never see Mom again? This stupid tapestry could be all I have left of her. She’s sick, she might never weave again, she …”

I trailed off as tears bubbled up in my nose and throat. All around us were the pieces of the wrecked living room. Bits of splintered wood cut into my knees. Bella’s lip quivered as she stared at me, her eyes huge and glassy. I was reminded of Theo’s face, terrified and white as bone.

I’d lived my life like it was a little hut in the mountains. When others peeked through the windows I closed them off and locked the door. I could see how the rest of it was going to play out, cold and distant and lonely.

Just like Mom.

I sank to the floor. Arms wrapped around me. It took a moment to realize they were Bella’s.

“Take your time,” she said.

I took a deep, shuddering breath. Then I told her everything.

*     *     *
Gravel crunched underneath the Uber’s tires as we pulled into the driveway. Even from here I could tell the yellow paint on the residential home’s doors was peeling, SUNNY DAYS HOME CARE barely visible in sun-bleached letters. I thanked the driver, retrieved my backpack, and made my way up the sidewalk.

Inside it smelled suffocating, a mix of potpourri and Lysol. The bored teenager at the front desk directed me upstairs. I walked past rows of identical doors, my heart pounding. Bella had spent hours rehearsing this moment with me, building up my courage, but there was no replacement for the real thing. At last, I reached the end of the hallway. After what felt like an eternity, I pushed the door open.

Mom had lost some weight. Two pillows cushioned her thin body from the wall, and her hair, tied in the familiar haphazard bun, had gone almost entirely gray. In the six years since that fateful summer, the version of her I remembered was gone, replaced with an old woman.

She jumped as I entered. “Grace, is that you?”

I nodded, setting my backpack down by the bed. “Hey, Mom.”

Shock flashed over Mom’s face. She sat up and squinted, as if she couldn’t believe I was really there. I tentatively stepped forward, holding my arms out.

“Where have you been?” Mom exploded. “After disobeying me, running off with that boy, and disappearing off the face of the earth, you dare come back now? Didn’t you ever think about how that affected me?”

Reality slammed me like a hammer to the face. This was who Mom had always been, angry, combative. How could I expect anything else?

Then I realized Mom was sobbing.

“I was so worried,” she continued. “After you left, I had no company other than myself, no one to talk to. All I could think about was how I’d forced you, my only daughter, out of my life. I didn’t think you’d ever come back.”

Silence hung like fine china on string. I wet my lips.

“Well, when I first heard you got sick, I was still angry. I was scared of what I’d say if I came to see you. Then I was ashamed, and the shame grew every year until I felt like I could never come home again. Now so much time has passed. It seems like I never know how to fix things until it’s too late.”

Mom smiled, tired and sad. “That’s what growing older feels like, doesn’t it? Every day you wake up with that voice in your head, saying you’re running out of time. There’s always something you should be doing, something missing, but you don’t know quite what. Never mind that for once. Tell me the history I missed.”

So I told Mom about my years at Rutgers, the pains of finding an apartment in New York, and the frantic, caffeine-laced pace at my consulting job. She laughed when I told her about when Bella found a rat in her closet shortly after we’d moved in, and the years seemed to fly off her face. But a question weighed on my mind.

“Were you okay living on your own?” I asked. “Did the tapestry hunters ever find you again?”

Mom sighed. “I moved between apartments as often as I could, given my health and the trove of history I was guarding. When I grew too weak, I hid the tapestries somewhere safe, sold my loom and other possessions, and came to this care home. They didn't go after you, did they?”

“No,” I said, not wanting her to worry, but she narrowed her eyes.

“I can still hear it in your voice when you lie.”

Guilty, I looked away, but recited the story of how the shadow man had come after Theo and I in college. Mom turned stark white.

“I knew bringing you into the weavers’ legacy was dangerous. At the time I was so desperate to replace the family I had lost and give you a more stable life than the one I'd had. If I could do it again …”

“It's okay. I’m not angry about that anymore.” I paused. “Well, I still am, sometimes. But sometimes I think I understand your side, too. Anyway, I wanted to ask a favor.”

I reached for my backpack and pulled out a bundle of cloth. Mom’s eyes flashed with recognition at her old handiwork. Her face fell when I revealed the little hut, split in two by the jagged hole. As Mom looked on, I brought out a sewing kit.

“You gave this to me to take away for college. It saved my life. I don’t know if the magic still works without a loom, but … I’d like you to teach me how to fix it. If it’s possible.”

“Ah! Of course.” Mom beamed. “Yes, the principle should be the same. Come here, let’s put this piece of history back together.”

Mom talked me through the process of pulling apart the threads at the edges, how to whisper my intent and story into them as I bound them back together, and how to feel for the magic when everything locked into place. The hours flew by, and when it was done, the shadows in the room had lengthened into great dark fingers. As I finished the final knots, Mom grew silent. When I looked up I saw that she’d fallen asleep, her thin chest rising and falling underneath the blankets.

There was still work to be done, I thought, but there would be time for that tomorrow. I folded the tapestry gently over Mom’s body, turned off the lights, and slipped out of the room.