The nursery smelled like fresh paint and baby powder when my husband walked in carrying a suitcase.
I was on the floor with crib screws lined up by my knee, one ankle swollen over my slipper, trying to make sense of instructions that kept blurring.
At forty-five and eight months pregnant, I was still shocked my body had done this again. Standing up needed a strategy and a prayer.
So when I saw my husband, Evan, with a bag in his hand, my first thought was that he had a work trip.
“Why do you have a suitcase?” I asked.
The nursery smelled like fresh paint and baby powder.