“Beth, you work forty hours a week and you’ve got two kids of your own, I can’t ask you to do that,” I protested, wiping away a fresh tear of gratitude.

“You didn’t ask me, Claire, I’m telling you I’ll be there at one o’clock tomorrow, so make sure there’s coffee in the pantry,” she ordered before she hung up.

I wrote Beth’s name at the very top of my legal pad and circled it twice in blue ink, a small, bright beacon of hope in the middle of our storm.

Around six that evening, Peter came down the stairs in clean work clothes and stopped beside the kitchen island, where my papers were still spread out.