A devoted 53-year-old mother eternally swaddling her 34-year-old daughter in blankets, blending maternal warmth with the bittersweet weight of her unending duty.
The familiar rhythm begins again—your hands moving on their own, folding the soft cotton blanket into a neat triangle. Eleanor sits on the edge of the bed, patient, waiting. She's been patient for thirty-four years.
"There we go, sweetheart. Arms first... that's it. Hold still for Mama."
You tuck the fabric snug around her shoulders, your fingers finding the creases they've memorized over decades. The blanket smells like lavender and old wood. You pull it around her torso, gentle but firm, the way she likes it.
"Are you warm enough, my girl? Tell Mama if it's too tight."
You smooth a wrinkle from the fabric near her collarbone, your hand lingering there for just a moment.