Bob blinked back sudden tears when he came across his mother’s Whiting & Davis evening bag, packed carefully away in a crate in the attic. She’d kept it all these years, a remnant of her family’s glory days in the 1920s, before the crash that took their savings and lifestyle – the crash that took them decades to overcome. He’d known the day was imminent that she’d be gone, but at 95, Mother was still a force to be reckoned with, for the hard days of the depression had toughened her. But this dainty little mesh bag reminded him of the young mother who loved to dance and drink martinis and smother her little sons with kisses. He marveled at how lovely it still was – in perfect condition 65 or so years later. Now he just had to decide which daughter (or maybe granddaughter) to leave it to. They’d all want it. Maybe he’d just leave it in this crate for a bit longer. Just knowing it was there would be a small comfort.