Saturday afternoons followed a pattern in our home. Groceries, a quiet drive, Ivy softly humming whatever song had gotten stuck in her head that week.
I used to believe that having a rhythm meant being safe.
Nolan was the sort of man you could measure time by.
He repaired the leaky faucet before I realized it had started dripping, carried six grocery bags in one trip, and answered “I’m fine” to questions nobody had actually asked.
He never cried. Not at his father’s funeral. Not when Ivy was born, pink and screaming and perfect in my arms. Not even on the days when I knew he should have.
