He carried a paper bag of door hinges under one arm.

“Your mother sent soup,” he said.

“She thinks you’re not eating.”

“She’s right.” I set the bag on the counter and took him into the nursery.

Maya slept in the crib with her left fist against her cheek, the floral baby blanket tucked under her arm.

Arthur rested both broad palms flat on the changing table.

I handed him the mortgage application.

“Page two.”