“We’ll plant them as soon as the sun warms up the soil on Saturday,” I said.

By four o’clock, the wind had died down completely, and the garden behind the house lay in warm, golden afternoon light.

My newborn daughter lay cradled in my arms, free of Clara and safe from the web of lies that had once threatened to take away her nursery before she was even born.

I stood by the wide nursery window, rocking her slowly as I looked out over the brown garden beds and the tall oak trees at the edge of the lawn.

Leo sat on the wool rug near the closet door, lining up his wooden train cars in a long red row along the baseboard.