Colette stepped out, then went around and unbuckled a child from a car seat, while her partner — Dale, a soft-spoken high-school history teacher she’d met through her volunteer work — climbed out with a box of garden tools and a tray of tomato seedlings.

Colette carried her six-month-old daughter up the newly painted steps and set the warm, drowsy weight of her into my arms.

They had named her Faye.

She had her grandmother’s blue eyes, and she looked out at the tall pines and the shining water with an open, unafraid wonder that undid me completely.

“The new roof held all winter, Dad,” Colette said, running her eye along the roofline out of pure habit now.

“Not a drop.”