Six weeks later, the March morning sun cut across the yellow-painted pine floor of the nursery.

I smoothed the trim on a small yellow cotton baby blanket and folded it into four neat squares on top of the oak changing dresser.

In the wicker bassinet by the south window, my three-day-old daughter slept quietly under a white fleece quilt, her tiny fingers tucked under her chin.

The room smelled of fresh pine paint and lavender laundry soap instead of old paper ledgers and cold coffee.

Leo pushed the nursery door open with his foot, carrying a small wooden box of brass curtain rings he had helped me polish on the kitchen counter after breakfast.