I had bought three secondhand cribs from different families.

They did not match.

One was white, one natural wood, and one painted a soft yellow.

Each had been checked for safety and prepared carefully, yet standing in the doorway I worried that my daughters would begin life surrounded by evidence of everything I could not provide.

Miriam arrived with clean sheets and saw me staring.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“They don’t even have matching beds.”