It was the right sentence.

It was, in the end, enough.

It just took eleven months.

The box went home in a bag and the bag went in the closet of a room we did not go into, and then in the August it went into a plastic tub when we moved, and then it sat in a garage in a house in Middleton, Wisconsin, for another five months.

I opened it on the twenty-eighth of February, three days before my son’s first birthday, at about eleven at night, sitting on the floor of a garage with a glass of wine, because I had decided that morning that I was going to be a person who could do that.