Hand in hand, we leave the kitchen and take the stairs to the guest bedroom. It’s a large space with tall, narrow windows that look out at the front of the property. Shortly after I moved in, Tomasetti added a bathroom and walk-in closet. The additions gobbled up some space, but there’s still plenty of room, which includes a sitting area near the window.

The light flicks on and I find myself looking at a wooden bassinet. I recognize the Amish craftsmanship immediately: the dovetail joints and corkscrewed spindles. It’s made of maple and stained the color of cherrywood.

“I found it at an auction in Geauga,” he tells me. “It’s Amish-made. The guy I bought it from said it’s about sixty years old.”

I can’t stop looking at the bassinet. There’s something about that solid piece of furniture, so sturdy and with so much history, that drives home the fact that all of this is real. That my life—our lives—are about to change in a very big way. The world is spinning out of control, and I feel the sudden need to hold on tight or else risk being flung off into space.

“I’m working on a case there,” he tells me, “assisting the sheriff’s office with the murder of a small-time meth dealer who’s turning out to be not so small-time.” He motions toward the bassinet. “There’s a nick on the leg, and it’s missing a caster wheel in the back. Both are easy fixes. I picked up a caster at the hardware store. And I think I’ve got some wood filler and stain in the garage.”

It’s not like Tomasetti to prattle. In fact, he’s more likely to clam up. For the first time I realize he’s nervous about what he’s done. About how I’m going to react to it.

“Kate?”

I tear my gaze away from the bassinet and look at him. I see concern and uncertainty in his expression, and I realize this is an important moment. One that’s going to define how we navigate this new turn in our lives.

“It’s beautiful,” I tell him.

He reaches for the bassinet and gently lays it over on its side. “Look at this.” Beneath the crib section, carved into the wood are the words from an Amish proverb I hadn’t heard or thought of in years.

A CHILD IS THE ONLY TREASURE YOU CAN TAKE TO HEAVEN.

I’m not a crier. I can count the number of times I’ve cried in the last five years on one hand. But the sight of those words inscribed in the wood and the knowledge that the man I love bought it for our child bring a rush of heat to my eyes.

I raise my gaze to Tomasetti’s. “It’s perfect.”

“You sure? I mean, if you want something new, I can—”