That night, after a dinner of roasted chicken and warm cinnamon rolls, the sun went down behind the mountains and painted the whole Oregon sky in violet and gold, and our house filled up with light — every room bright and warm and loud with life.

I stood in the doorway of the girls’ bedroom and watched Hazel and Kelly read Fiona a bedtime story, Barnaby curled at the foot of the bed with his tail thumping the rug, all three of my daughters laughing at a picture in the book.

Fiona pulled her blanket up to her chin and yawned and caught sight of me in the doorway.

“Goodnight, Mommy,” she called softly.