Re-Hemmed For Someone Smaller

I'm on the pull-out couch in what used to be my room, wide awake, thinking about a coat by the back door.

It's the navy one with toggle buttons I outgrew around tenth grade. Someone re-hemmed the sleeves. I noticed in the hallway light three hours ago and haven't managed to fall asleep since.

Marcus is nine. He came to us in March, and everyone keeps saying how good it is that nothing goes to waste in this house. I said it too, at dinner, out loud. I meant it, mostly.

Then I went and checked the pockets. Old habit, my mother's rule from when the coat was mine. There was a bus pass in the inside pocket, laminated, my name half rubbed off, tucked behind the tag someone re-stitched smaller.

Nobody found that before they measured the sleeves against a nine year old. Nobody went through it and thought, this was his, we should ask if he wants to keep it. They just made it fit and hung it back up.

I put the pass exactly where it was. I couldn't tell you why. It's not like anyone's going to check that pocket again before it's really his.