I rocked back and forth in the steady rhythm of the wooden chair, watching the shadow of the maple outside drift across the pale yellow wall.

“I’m going to put the kettle on,” Sarah said, stepping over the empty cardboard box by the door.

“Thank you, Sarah,” I said softly.

Sarah pulled the door nearly closed, leaving it open two inches so the hall light fell across the floor.

I laid my daughter down gently on her back in the middle of the fresh crib mattress.

She stretched out one tiny hand, her fingers opening and closing against the cool cotton sheet.