My daughter called with good news and said she'd already told her brother. I was happy for her, then caught myself feeling left out of a conversation between two people I spent years encouraging to get along. Excellent work, Mother. They are allowed to have things that don't come through me. I asked her to tell me the whole story and she did, laughing at a part her brother had apparently found funny too. By the end I was glad they had each other, properly glad, not the polite version. Still, the first little sting surprised me. Having the house to myself suits me very well; being the last to hear every so often is taking practice.

Spent the evening cutting quilt pieces after a day of typing, then acted surprised when my wrist complained. Apparently switching from a computer to scissors does not count as resting it. I put the brace on and sat on the porch without bringing anything to keep my hands occupied, which lasted until I started picking loose threads off my shirt. The neighbor came over and we walked round the block instead. My wrist didn't magically recover, but the rest of me felt less folded up by the time we got back. I have left the sewing room exactly as it was, unfinished pieces and all. This is not an emergency, despite appearances.

I looked again at the judges' comments on last year's quilt instead of assuming they simply preferred somebody else's colors. There's a specific note about the border not lying flat, and now I've measured it I can see what they meant. At work I will happily track an error back through three screens of documentation. In my sewing room I apparently prefer the explanation that taste is mysterious and judges are peculiar. I don't have to agree with everything they said, but this is something I can fix. Took out a small section to test it and made a mess of the first seam. Not a promising photograph, but more useful than staring at the honorable mention ribbon.