Bec nods, slips off the stool, and expertly crosses to the refrigerator. Her fingers travel over the bottles on cold shelves and bump over organized Tupperware until she finds a smooth white bottle. She lifts the creamer in an invisible question.

“No thanks, I’m good.” Crystal rolls up the plans and rummages in her bag. “Do you mind if I just retake a few measurements?”

“Knock yourself out.”

“I’ll try and be quiet so I don’t wake Jackson.”

“Oh, he’s fine. Noise machine.”

Crystal walks through the dining room off the kitchen and into the formal living room that wraps to the base of the stairs. Her hand snakes along the worn banister. She makes another mental note to check for sales with her wood guy. Bec should have something sleek and modern.

At the top, she turns left toward the master bedroom. Is it strange to sleep in your mother’s old room? She couldn’t imagine. She tentatively steps inside. But it’s probably easier than staying in her old marital room. Once Paul died, she’d made their master bedroom the guest room and transformed their office into the master. She couldn’t lie there night after night and think of him. No. Massive action. That was what it took to change a life.

That’s what she is going to do to help Bec change hers too. She is going to change the interior of this house so it will feel like Rebecca’s home—not her mother’s. Not her childhood home. A new, fresh start for a new life.

She rolls her eyes at the cheesy affirmations she’s plucked from grief group and turns to the task at hand. In the bedroom, she measures the windows and adjusts her last calculations. She winds down the hallway and pauses outside of Jackson’s room. His noise machine whirs. She remembers when Savi was so tiny. She used to watch her sleep and marvel at how she’d made something so delicate, and then she’d wait to feel what she was supposed to feel. She didn’t even want to touch her or pick her up. She was afraid she’d break.

Paul was the one who’d done most of the heavy lifting during the first year of Savi’s life. He never made her feel bad about it. Instead, he’d just loop an arm around her shoulder and say, “It will get better. You’ll see.” Every week, every month, every season. Until she’d woken up one day and that gaping hole in her chest had hardened into something else: motherhood. This was her child. It was her job to protect her. Through it all, Paul had never given up on her. Once she was safely on the other side, he’d kiss the nape of her neck and whisper, “See? I knew you’d make it.”