I stood on the gravel staring at the ramp until a screen door creaked. Harlan stepped out of the house in his work shirt, a paintbrush in one hand and sawdust in his gray hair, and froze when he saw me. His face went through three expressions at once. “Imogene,” he said, almost whispering, “I wanted you to see it after it was finished. Please come inside.” My knees trembled, and it was not from the nursing years.

Behind him, through the open doorway, I saw the kitchen. Every wall was painted buttercup yellow, the exact shade of my childhood kitchen, and a small wooden table stood beside the window with two chairs and a jar of wildflowers. Before I could speak, a car pulled into the driveway. Derek climbed out with his phone raised, Alicia in the passenger seat, and shouted, “Mama, step away from him right now!” Harlan lowered the paintbrush slowly.