I thought it was just a quirky thrift store find—something vintage and charming to lift my mom’s spirits after yet another disappointing date. The blazer caught my attention immediately: brown, checkered, with delicate embroidery on the pocket. It reminded me of comfort. Of warmth. Of another time. My mom had always had a thing for men’s jackets, styling them in her own offbeat way. I bought it without a second thought, thinking it was just a sweet little gesture. I had no idea it would unearth a story she’d kept buried for forty years.
When I got home, she greeted me with her usual teasing, calling me “Sofie Junior”—her way of reminding me I was becoming more like her: fierce, sarcastic, and just a little bit guarded. I handed her the wrapped blazer, excited to see her face light up. But the moment her fingers brushed the fabric, everything changed. Her smile faded. She froze.
“I’ve seen this jacket before,” she said quietly.
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