I imagined a little voice asking why the marks were there.
And I imagined telling the story.
Not only the story of the house we lost, but the story of the father who taught me that love was more than money, and the husband who spent eighteen months restoring the place where that lesson first took root.
Ethan came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist.
“Thinking about something?”
I placed my hands over his.
“I was thinking about where we’ll put the baby’s things.”
“That’s a very important architectural question.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. We’ll need a proper changing table.”
“And a crib.”
“And a chair for late-night feedings.”
I leaned against him.
“And eventually, a swing.”
He smiled.
“We already have one.”
“One for the baby. One for us.”
He kissed the side of my head.
“Deal.”
I picked up the pencil resting on the shelf.
