“It sure is, sweetie,” I said, putting a plate of warm toast on the table between us.

She smoothed the soft knit flat against her chest with both palms.

“Is Daddy coming over to fix the porch door today?” she asked.

“No,” I said, sitting down beside her.

“Daddy has his own little apartment on Farmington Avenue now.”

“Are we keeping the yellow kitchen chairs?” she asked.

“We’re keeping the chairs, your bed and all your picture books,” I said.

“Everything that matters is coming with us.”