Walking through my own doorway felt both familiar and strange.

The kitchen table stood where I’d left it.

A half-finished grocery list lay beside the kettle.

Noah’s little socks were scattered near the couch.

I had expected a surge of independence, but the place mostly reminded me how alone I had been when I first brought him home.

I sat at the table while Beatrice gathered clothes and Richard checked the smoke detector.

In the drawer, I found the notebook I had begun during pregnancy.