EPILOGUE: ONE YEAR LATER
The nursery faces the sea.
It’s painted the soft yellow of early morning, with a small white crib beside the window and a rocking chair that Don built himself, badly, over six long weekends. One of the legs is slightly shorter than the others. He refuses to let anyone replace it.
On a warm September evening, I sit in that crooked chair with our daughter asleep in my arms.
Her name is Eleanor Rose Baste. She has her father’s dark eyes and, according to the nurses, my stubborn chin. She is eleven weeks old and already knows exactly how to wrap both of us around her tiny finger.
The door creaks open. Don peers in, his hair messy, a burp cloth draped over one shoulder.
“Is she sleeping?” he whispers.
“Finally.”
He crosses the room on silent feet and kneels beside us. For a long moment, he simply watches her breathe.
“Do you ever think about it?” he asks softly. “That night. The suit.”
“Sometimes.”
