In our bedroom, the walls had been painted the warm white I had wanted since the day we moved in. Another card rested on the nightstand.
“The good pillow is yours. It was always supposed to be yours. I don’t know why it took me this long.”
I sat on the edge of the bed.
I lifted his work shirt from a pile on the floor beside his desk. The fabric was stiff with paint stains that had not been there before I went into the hospital.
On the desk was a stack of contractor invoices and plumbing receipts, every date falling inside the two weeks I had spent in the recovery wing.
Rowan had not been home doing nothing.
