“Someone who’s going to be very small for a while.”
I looked at the crooked lines my father had once drawn.
One day, our child’s height marks could begin beneath them.
Different handwriting.
Different colors.
But the same doorway.
I placed the pencil on the shelf.
“Let’s wait until the baby’s old enough.”
Ethan laughed.
“Deal.”
Then I kissed him.
Five years earlier, my mother had publicly predicted that our marriage would fail.
She believed my husband couldn’t give me the life I deserved because he didn’t earn enough money.
But she had never understood what my father had taught me.
A home wasn’t defined by the price of the property.
It wasn’t measured by a man’s salary.
And it certainly wasn’t something that could be purchased with a $20,000 check.
A home was where you felt loved, accepted, and safe.
