“Is this the last box from the storage unit?” my father asked.

“That’s the last one, General,” Ethan said, stepping up to take the other side of the heavy box.

Together, they carried it across the paved courtyard path and through the open front door of apartment four.

I stood in the entryway holding Noah, who was contentedly chewing on his green rubber teething ring.

They set the wardrobe box down beside the hallway coat closet.

“The crib in the second bedroom is completely put together,” Ethan told my father, wiping his palm on his jeans.