“Twelve bucks ,” I said.
“You're in luck, ” she told me. “It's only $11. You have a dollar left over for the card. ”
She gift-wrapped the purse and thanked me for my business, and I rode off on my bike with the package under my arm.
When my mother opened the gift the next Sunday morning, she stammered in an accusatory tone, “Where did you get this?”
“I bought it at the Agins,” I said.
My mother was stunned into silence.
It wasn’t until many years later, when I learned that the purse was worth several hundred dollars, that I appreciated just how wonderful Sylvia Agins had been to me. I always felt bad that I never had a chance to properly thank her. Recently, I met someone at a party who knew her daughter, Roberta, and passed along her phone number. I decided to call Roberta, who told me her mother died 22 years ago.
When I told her the Mother’s Day story, she paused for a long time.
“That just takes my breath away ,” she said. “She wasn’t the kind of person who wanted credit for the things she did. She was so gracious and giving and loving . That little story exactly captures my mother's essence. ”
My mother, who carried the purse for many years until it was beyond repair, is now 90. She says she can still recall every detail about the purse: the rich texture of the leather, the color, the gleaming brass clasp and trim.
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