The Day I Dropped My Husband at the Airport, My Eight-Year-Old Daughter Warned Me Not to Go Home. Minutes Later, I Saw Why.

“When we find one, absolutely.”

“Even if it’s small?”

“Especially if it’s small.

We’ll need decorations.”

She laughed, and Rachel winked at me across the room.

That evening we ate grilled cheese sandwiches at the table and argued cheerfully about whether tomato soup counted as a vegetable serving.

For thirty minutes, the future felt like a thing we could build out of ordinary evenings.

My first night back was hard.