green called Moss Glass.
Caleb spent the afternoon on a ladder with paint in his hair. I taped the trim. Sophie sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor drawing us, adding exaggerated streaks of green on our cheeks every time one of us got distracted and smudged something.
When the paint dried, she rehung her shelves, put her lamp back, and set my father’s framed note above the desk.
Late that evening, after the brushes were cleaned and the drop cloths folded away, Sophie stood in the doorway of her newly painted room with bare feet and specks of green on her wrist.
“It feels like mine again,” she said.
Caleb looked at her for a long moment.
Then he crossed the room, pressed his palm lightly to the doorframe, and said, “It always was.”
Outside, the porch light glowed warm over the front steps.
Inside, our house held.
Not because the paperwork said so.
Because when someone came for our child’s place in the world, we stood in the doorway and said no.
And this time, no stayed said.
