"Everyone calls you mousy, sis."
The fact that it was true did not make the comment sit any better with Anne. She counted the stitches on the little turquoise leg and muttered an impolite word under her breath. Distracted by her brother's blathering, she'd failed to complete the complicated circular pattern, and the little cylinder was now three stitches too large. Cursing again, she delicately unstitched the row and started over, carefully making each knit and purl exactly where she wanted them. When she had finished that row, she marked her stitches in her little notebook. This teddy bear pattern would have some stretch to it, which should make it better for children, not like the rigid seed stitched one she'd gotten from a magazine the month before.
Thinking back on that bear, she sighed. It was sitting on her dresser now, the one she'd bought at a garage sale, painstakingly stripped, painted white, and embellished with little flowers and bows. She grimaced. Her leg had ached for a solid week after that venture. The fact that she refused to let her disability ruin her life didn't mean living was always comfortable.
The first teddy had come out rather well, of course. Its eyes, little asterisks of navy yarn, looked at her a little sadly, she thought. She had deliberately understuffed him, trying to make him squishy, but it hadn't worked. That's when she'd hit on the idea of rib stitch, which automatically created flexibility. It would be a much cuddlier toy when she was done. As would the baby yarn she was using. Yes, it was acrylic, and not a natural fibre, but the fuzzy texture and whimsical colour should appeal to the little girl and her mother.
It suddenly occurred to Anne that if she never had a man in her life, she might not have to tolerate so many messes, but she would also never have a baby of her own. Never knit a blanket or bear or little yellow hat for her own child. That thought caused a pang. Children are messy, she reminded herself. But that didn't stop her from wanting a couple.