I looked at the small brown birthmark on Ethan’s cheek, the one right below his left eye, but he kept his head tilted down, refusing to meet my gaze.

A cold, quiet stillness settled into the space between my ribs.

For four full months, from the crisp start of November through the damp freeze of late winter, Ethan had met me at the kitchen door every evening with a tired, proud smile.

He had told me how he spent his lunch breaks wiping down counter tops, vacuuming the nursery rug, and chopping vegetables so we could have fresh meals together.

I remembered how many times I had sat at our kitchen table exhausted after spending four hours at my mother Martha’s house, holding her trembling hands while she tried to button her sweater.