Deja came in on a raw afternoon in January with a baby on her hip and a coat that had lost every one of its buttons, and she stood in the doorway looking at me with the wariness of a young woman who has learned not to expect much for free.

Her note had been in the basket — Deja’s work skirt, hem + the tear, she starts the new job the 14th — and I had it finished and wrapped in brown paper on the shelf, and when I gave it to her, and told her Franny had already done it and there was nothing to pay, she cried in a way that embarrassed her, quick and angry at herself, wiping it off.

She was twenty-two.

The baby was Bo, eight months, and he had a look he gave the world of frank astonishment, and when Deja’s arms got tired I did a thing I had not done since Robin was small, which was hold a baby against my shoulder and walk him up and down a room, and he fell asleep with his fist in my collar, and Deja sat in the green chair and watched me and said, quietly, “Miss Franny used to do that.