Ethan had left it exactly as it was.
I turned toward the kitchen doorway.
And my knees almost gave way.
There were the height marks.
Blue.
Red.
Green.
Crooked little lines.
Uneven handwriting.
Birthdays written beside them.
At the very top was the last mark Dad had drawn before we moved away.
I pressed my fingers against it.
“This one,” I whispered. “Dad made it crooked because I wouldn’t stop laughing.”
Ethan smiled.
“You told me that story.”
“No, you don’t understand. He pretended he was angry. He said I’d have to stand still so he could measure me again.”
“I remember.”
I began crying uncontrollably.
Ethan wrapped his arms around me.
For a long time, I couldn’t speak.
Eventually, he explained that the original marks had been covered and damaged.
He’d used my photographs to reproduce them as closely as possible.
They weren’t the exact pencil strokes Dad had made.
