My hands shook before I even touched the fabric.
« We owe you the truth. »
Suddenly, I was back on that beach on the day I thought my life was already over.
Eighteen years earlier, I buried Sarah and Ivy.
Sarah was my fiancée. Ivy was our daughter. She had never taken a breath, but she already had a name, a crib, and yellow onesies because Sarah said babies deserved sunshine.
After the funeral, I stopped answering calls, shaving, and eating unless someone left food directly in front of me.
I buried Sarah and Ivy.
Most days, I sat in the nursery, staring at the pale yellow walls and the uneven corner Sarah had teased me about.
So, I kept repainting it, as if getting it right might bring her home.
Chris, my best friend, finally showed up after three weeks and stepped inside.
