One day he added a new square labeled CONNOR’S PLACE.

“Is that my house?” I asked.

“Not yet,” he said.

“I don’t know what it looks like.”

I had considered bringing them to my penthouse for months.

Suddenly I understood that a child’s idea of home could not be built with glass walls and expensive views.

It would need a place for muddy shoes, reachable cups, and the assurance that a grown-up would notice when someone was tired.

I asked Hannah whether we could eventually plan a short visit, with her present.