The nursery still smelled of fresh paint and baby powder when my husband walked in with a suitcase.
I was sitting on the floor, crib screws lined neatly beside me, one ankle swollen inside my slipper, trying to follow instructions that kept slipping out of focus.
At forty-five and eight months pregnant, I was still in disbelief that my body had carried me this far again. Even standing up took planning—and a little faith.
So when I saw Evan holding a suitcase, I assumed it was just another work trip.
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