The Stitch That Held

The mitten’s thumb split open when I tugged the last stitch tight.

I stopped with the needle pinched between my fingers. The wool had thinned along the seam, and the little patch I’d sewn inside it had pulled crooked. One more hard pull might tear the whole thing wider.

Clara’s hands paused over the dough. “How is it going?”

“Badly.”

She didn’t come across the kitchen. She waited, giving me room to decide if I wanted help. I laid the mitten flat and smoothed the split with my thumb. “I think the patch is too small.”

“Could you make it wider?”

“Maybe. If I take it out.”

The next mending circle was that evening. I had spent three days on the mitten, careful not to rush the stitches, and still I’d managed to pull the seam apart. My ankle was braced beneath the table, and the chair’s rung pressed against the bandage. I shifted my foot until the ache eased.

“I can unpick it,” I said.

Clara set the dough aside and turned toward the sound of my voice. “Would you like me to find the bigger scraps?”

“Yes, please.”

She brought the tin of fabric to the table and put it within reach. I chose a piece of brown flannel, softer than the wool and wide enough to cover the worn place. The stitches came out slowly. Each time the needle caught, I had to stop and free it without making a new hole.

Clara worked on the other side of the table. She didn’t ask how long it would take. That helped.

When I finished, the patch showed through the thumb’s opening as a dark crescent. The seam lay flat. I bent the mitten, then pressed the thumb between my fingers.

“It should hold,” I said.

Clara smiled. “You’ll find out when it’s worn.”

I folded it into a clean cloth and put it in my coat pocket. That evening, I carried it myself.

The town hall was louder than Clara’s bakery, though the sound wasn’t sharp. Chairs scraped; someone laughed at the far end of the room. People talked while they set out tea and sewing baskets. My injured ankle made the walk from the door feel longer than it was. Clara kept pace beside me, her arm offered without closing the space between us.

At the last meeting, I’d stood near the doorway for a while before choosing a chair. This time, Mrs. Dorr looked up as soon as we came in.

“There you are,” she said. “I saved the chair beside me. The leg wobbles less than the others.”