replaced the roof twice, redone the kitchen ourselves when money was tight, and celebrated more birthdays at that dining room table than I could count.
My husband had been gone for several years by then, but there were still mornings when I half expected to hear him coming down the hallway.
I took a sip of coffee, entered the living room, and looked at Harper.
“Honey,” I said, “this is my house.”
Her expression froze.
David, my thirty-two-year-old son, found something fascinating about the carpet.
That was David.
He had
