The apartment smelled of kettle steam and clean laundry.

I had bought a square wooden table for twelve dollars at the thrift store.

Its surface was scarred, but it was sturdy.

I did not need it to impress anyone.

Clara placed the carton where I asked and waited while I settled my daughter safely in the crib.

I came back to find her standing beside the box, not opening cupboards.

“We can unpack that,” I said.