“It’ll come every month,” I said, and then I hung up.

I straightened David’s photograph on the mantel, making sure the wooden frame lined up exactly with the brass wristband beside it.

The living room was quiet and warm.

The dark fireplace bricks, so cold and gray through the winter, had been swept clean.

The room belonged to David, Clara and me.

At four in the afternoon, the bright sun shifted across the front lawn.

I lifted Clara out of her crib, wrapped her in a light linen blanket, and carried her out into the front garden.