Chapter 16 — A Table She Built

There was a soft knock at the door that joined my office to the little nursery beside it, and my father came through it carrying my daughter.

Esme was eighteen months old now, and the instant she saw me her whole face opened into a bright, delighted laugh, and she flung both arms out toward me.

I crossed the room and took her warm weight against my chest and pressed my face into her soft dark hair and breathed her in.

“She woke from her nap asking for the stacking blocks,” my father said, beaming at the pair of us with an open devotion he had never once had to ration.