I arrived at my mother's home for our Monday family dinner. The smells of food flew over from the kitchen. Mother was pulling out quilt after quilt from the boxes, proudly showing me their beauties. She was preparing for a quilt show at the Elmhurst Church. When we began to fold and put them back into the boxes, I noticed something at the bottom of one box. I pulled it out. "What is this?" I asked. "Oh?" Mom said, "That's Mama's quilt." I spread the quilt. It looked as if a group of school children had pieced it together; irregular designs, childish pictures, a _ line on the right. "Grandmother made this?" I said, surprised. My grandmother was a master at making quilts. This certainly didn't look like any of the quilts she had made. "Yes, right before she died. I brought it home with me last year and made some changes," she said. "I'm still working on it. See, this is what I've done so far." I looked at it more closely. She had made straight a crooked line. At the center of the quilt, she had stitched  a piece of cloth with these words:"My mother made many quilts. She didn't get all lines straight. But I think this is beautiful. I want to see it finished. Her last quilt." "Oh, this is so nice, Mom," I said. It occurred to me that by completing my grandmother's quilt, my mother was honoring her own mother. I realized, too, that I held in my hands a family treasure. It started with the loving hands of one woman, and continued with the loving hands of another. The author was surprised because   _  .
the quilt looked very strange her grandmother liked the quilt the quilt was the best she had seen her mother had made some changes