I hadn’t been looking for strangers to tell me what to do.

I had needed the relief of realizing that complicated feelings didn’t mean I was making a mistake.

One afternoon, Wyatt found me sitting in Dad’s workshop while Paisley slept in her portable bassinet nearby.

The smell of sawdust and machine oil drifted around the workbench.

Wyatt was repairing an old wooden rocking chair that had belonged to our mother.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said.

“I keep wondering whether I’m making everything harder than it needs to be.”