For one foolish second I imagined letting Emma sleep there, surrounded by the history of the mother she believed was dead.

Then I understood it would be unfair.

Emma needed a room that belonged to Emma.

I bought pale yellow curtains because she’d said yellow reminded her of warm mornings.

I found a secondhand desk with enough space for spelling homework and drawing paper.

Denise’s husband helped me carry it upstairs.

When he offered to paint the walls, I said I’d wait until Emma chose a color herself.

At the market, Denise found me staring at a display of birthday candles.