They returned to the cupboard that evening. Nora asked which coats he wanted to donate. Arthur chose two and kept the brown one. It still fitted, he said, and he knew a place that could mend the lining.
She slipped the receipt into an envelope, not to hide it but to stop it falling apart. On the outside she wrote the date and Leila’s name. Her father added the name of the child, carefully, beneath it.
“You don’t have to tell me everything,” Nora said. “But I’d like to know when you’ve found somewhere you belong.”
Arthur hung the coat beside the door. “Come on Thursday,” he said. “There will be something to do.”
For the first time that day, Nora left the donation bag where it was. They had made enough room for one evening.
