On the first page she had drawn our porch in summer, with Eleanor’s climbing roses along the railing.

On the last page she had written, in careful handwriting, “Home is a place where you can breathe.”

I carried the book to the hospital and put it in Chloe’s hands.

She looked through the pages slowly, stopping at the porch drawing.

“I thought I’d never see that house again,” she admitted.

“The house is still there,” I told her.

“And there’s room.”