Sundays were for dreams.
Her trunk contained three secret boxes, tied with narrow silk ribbons. The first held a soft, cream-colored chambray shirt, hand-finished with tiny French seams and glinting with mother-of-pearl buttons. The second box contained a cloth doll, its hair plaited with yellow embroidery thread, its dress a miniature of the calico gowns Ellen remembered from childhood. The smallest box was for a child, too-a stuffed toy train, felted and stitched with loving precision. Together, they made up her hope chest, as carefully built and imagined as any trousseau.
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