The paint was peeling in soft curls along the siding. The porch sagged on the left side as if it were leaning in to hear a secret. It wasn’t much, but it was ours.
The moving truck pulled away.
My eight-year-old daughter, Olivia, had already kicked off her sneakers and was running barefoot through the tall grass out back. Her arms stretched wide as if she were greeting the lake itself.
« Mom, there’s a frog, » she yelled. « A real one! I named him Kevin! »
« Kevin the frog stays outside, » I called back, laughing. « He’s a wild animal. »
« He’s my best friend now! »
« I named him Kevin! »
I set the box down on the porch step and let myself breathe.
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