He had driven my mother to two appointments, bought her groceries, and brought the receipts straight to the kitchen counter without being asked once.

“June is asleep,” Ethan whispered.

He lowered her gently into her crib and smoothed her yellow blanket over her shoulders.

We walked out of the nursery together, leaving the door cracked three inches the way we always did.

In the downstairs hallway, Ethan picked up his leather messenger bag from the entryway chair.

He unzipped the front pocket, pulled out a second spiral notebook, and set it on the coffee table next to Martha’s medical folder.

“I put Martha’s prescription refilling schedule on page two,” he said.