Even the tiny painted flower above the light switch was there.
I stared at it.
Then I burst out laughing.
“You kept my terrible flower?”
Ethan grinned.
“Wouldn’t dream of removing it.”
“I drew that when I was seven.”
“I know.”
“It looks like a potato with petals.”
“An artistic potato.”
I laughed so hard I had to sit down.
For the first time that morning, the memories weren’t only painful.
They were funny too.
They were warm.
They reminded me that my childhood had been more than the day we lost the house, more than the years of financial struggle, and more than the grief that followed my father’s death.
It had been filled with ordinary, imperfect happiness.
And Ethan had gone to extraordinary lengths to help me remember that.
Eventually, we went outside.
The oak tree stood behind the house, its branches stretching over the grass.
Beneath it hung a wooden swing.
