Grace was five months along now, her belly rounding beneath the loose sweaters she still wore. She'd stopped trying to hide it. There was no point anymore. The whole town knew, or would soon enough. Small places had long memories and short attention spans for secrets.
She needed to start preparing. Needed somewhere for the baby to sleep, to be changed, to exist. But every time I saw her look at the empty room at the end of the hall, something in her face went tight. Like she couldn't quite make herself go in there. Like making it real meant admitting she was doing this alone.
So I did it for her.
I measured the room on a Tuesday night after she'd gone to bed. Drew up plans on graph paper the way my grandfather taught me, every dimension precise, every joint accounted for. The next day, I drove to the lumber yard in Millbrook and came back with enough pine to build a crib, a changing table, and a set of shelves.
The work started after my shifts and stretched into the early morning hours. Measuring, cutting, and sanding. The smell of fresh-cut pine filled the carriage house, sawdust settling into my clothes, my hair, the creases of my palms. I'd forgotten how much I loved this. The rhythm of it. The way building something with your hands made your mind go quiet.
The cribs in the stores looked flimsy to me. Particle board and dowels, the kind of thing that would wobble after a year, fall apart after two. I wanted something solid. Something that would last. So I built it the way my grandfather had built the furniture in my childhood home: mortise-and-tenon joints, no nails, wood fitted so tight it would hold for generations.
I painted the walls the exact shade of yellow Grace had mentioned once, months ago. We'd been talking about childhood memories, the places we felt safest. She'd said her grandmother's kitchen had been yellow. That the color made her feel like everything would be okay.
I found the paint at the hardware store. Held up six different swatches before I found the right one. The clerk asked if I was decorating a nursery.
"Something like that," I said.
I positioned the rocking chair by the window, angled so the moonlight would fall across it. Grace had told me once that her grandmother used to rock her by that window when nightmares came. That she'd wake up terrified, and Gran would carry her downstairs and hold her until the fear passed.
Every choice was deliberate. Every detail pulled from something she'd said, something she'd mentioned, something I'd filed away without realizing I was keeping track.
I was building a nursery for another man's baby.
I didn’t ask myself why that sentence landed so hard. I didn’t slow down long enough to examine it. Thinking had never been my strength. Doing was.
So I kept building.
I held her until the shaking eased. Until her breathing slowed and the weight of her settled into something steadier against me.
When she pulled back, she wiped at her face and laughed softly, embarrassed.
“I’m sorry. Hormones.”
“You don’t need an excuse,” I said.
She nodded, like she was storing that away for later. Then she turned back to the room, walking in slowly, as if it might disappear if she moved too fast. Her fingers brushed the edge of the crib. Traced the curve of the rail.
“This is… Owen.” She swallowed. “This is too much.”
“It’s wood and paint,” I said gently. “It’s just a room.”
She shot me a look. “You know that’s not true.”
I did. But I didn’t argue.
She crossed to the rocking chair and lowered herself into it carefully, testing the weight, the balance. It didn’t creak. It held.She rocked once, twice, her hand drifting to her belly like it did now—unconsciously, already protective.
“I kept telling myself I’d do this later,” she said. “That I had time. That if I didn’t make it real, it wouldn’t be as scary.”
I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, giving her space. “Making it real doesn’t make you weak.”
She looked up at me. Studied my face the way she did when she was trying to decide whether to believe something.
“You didn’t ask,” she said. Not accusing. Just stating a fact.
“No.”
“Why?”
