Ruth's eyes shone. "Your grandmother taught you that."
"She taught me a lot of things you didn't," Aaliyah said, and it was not kind and it was not cruel; it was simply true. "I'm still deciding which lessons to keep."
Ruth nodded, accepting the sentence like a woman who had learned, late, that acceptance was sometimes the only gift she had left to give.
At the door, putting on her coat, Ruth hesitated. "The cardigan," she said. "If you ever want it out of your closet, I can take it back. I know it carries more than wool."
Aaliyah thought of Elias in the laundry room doorway, gold necklace swinging, asking if he looked fancy. She thought of her own face buried in that same wool at eight, at ten, in the brief bright windows when Ruth had been sober enough to be soft.
"Keep it for now," Aaliyah said. "He likes you in it. And I am practicing letting that be uncomplicated for him even when it isn't uncomplicated for me."