Losing Mom so early in life had taught him the impermanence of things, of people. Despite the ferocity of his love, it was never enough to turn the transient eternal, to harden flesh into forever. And so losing Michelle and all they’d built together wasn’t merely possible, but likely. Recently, their daughter’s approaching due date seemed to coax this natural fact, which had always lurked in the shadows of his mind, more and more often into his daytime thoughts.

He had to brace himself, fasten his grip against the odds, and so he now embraced Michelle from behind. One hand ran over her thigh, while the other began pawing for their daughter, to see if she might greet him back. Gently, he stroked Michelle’s belly until it was met by a slight pressure. He was reduced to pulp. A stew of gratitude. Soon, very soon, once he could actually hold their daughter in his own two hands, he would be in possession of everything he had ever wanted, could have ever dreamed of—shelter, warmth, sustenance, company, purpose—and it was all so simple now. Only one thing to do: share this wealth with their daughter. She would want for nothing. She would live her entire life cushioned in all his tenderness, wading happily, forever and then some, in this abundance.

He used his forearm as a barrier between the baby and the edge of the counter as he reached into the elastic of Michelle’s pants. He began kissing the nape of her neck and the sweaty, salted-caramel curlicues along her hairline. They made love like that, with her bent over the kitchen sink and his arm wrapped around her front, shielding their baby from themselves.

There was still work to be done. Michelle started on the mac’n’cheese, and Henry went for the sawhorses in the toolshed. Last weekend he’d prepped the maple two-by-tens, so all that was left for today was to bore holes through which to run the bookshelf’s metal pipe legs. He placed the sawhorses behind the truck to hide himself from the street, even though the sound of the drill would attract the same handful of weary neighbors to lean on the truck’s bumper, scratch under baseball caps, spit tobacco juice, and comment on whatever tool Henry was using. He locked a spade bit into the hammer drill, measured and penciled a plank, then began drilling, releasing a spray of chunky, faintly syrup-smelling confetti. It was warm for March, and he took off his shirt to sun his winter-paled back.