This part of the house, aside from the addition of the bathroom, was as it had been for nearly a hundred years and Christina’s room was a small alcove that overlooked the fruit trees in the backyard. The bedroom next door belonged to Stephen, and Tiffany’s was across the hall. There were two occupied apartments in the basement and a third one—an empty studio—on the top floor. The ground floor of the carriage house that flanked the backyard was rented, while the upper level was, at the moment, standing empty.

“There you go,” she said, as she tucked Christina under a hand-pieced quilt her grandmother had made. She arranged Bub, a floppy-eared stuffed rabbit missing one eye, and Louie, a black-masked toy raccoon, beside her daughter.

“Just a little while,” Christina insisted.

“That’s right.” Tiffany leaned over and planted a soft kiss on the little girl’s forehead. Christina, whom Tiffany had dubbed the “miracle” baby, had been an unexpected blessing three years ago, long after she and Philip had decided that one child—Stephen—was enough. Philip had two nearly-grown children from his previous marriage and he hadn’t thought it was necessary to “overpopulate the world,” especially when he’d already been “paying a fortune” in child support.

Gazing down at her daughter now, Tiffany was thankful that God had seen otherwise, and that despite the use of birth control and Philip’s lack of interest, Christina had been conceived. “Destiny,” she’d told her husband upon learning the news.

“Or a curse,” Philip had replied with a scowl. “How many kids do you think I can afford?”

“It’s just one more.”

“That you planned,” he stated flatly, insisting that she’d intentionally tricked him by not using her diaphragm. The fight had simmered for days, with Philip brooding and spending more time at the office. Philip had slept in the den for nearly two weeks, acting as if she wasn’t even in the same house with him until she’d confronted him and flown into a rage.

“I want this baby!” she’d told him. “Stephen needs a sister or brother.”

“He’s got one of each.”

“Half-siblings who don’t live with him.” She’d advanced upon him as he’d sat in his chair, holding the newspaper firmly in white-knuckled fists, his jaw set, his nostrils flared in a seething, silent rage. “I didn’t plan to have this baby, but now that it’s coming, I consider it a gift and you should, too.”

“I’m too old to be a father again.”

“But I’m not too old to be a mother. It’ll be all right,” she’d said, aching inside. She wanted this baby so badly. “I’ll make it right.”

His snort of derision and snap of the sports page had been the end of the argument.