(Rebecca's POV)
The nursery is finished by Wednesday.
I stand in the doorway first, before I let myself walk all the way in, because there's something about a finished room that deserves one full look before you start touching things and making it yours through use instead of just through choosing.
Gerald's crib — his old crib, the one that's been in the family longer than I have, that I asked for specifically because some things should carry more than one child's weight before they're done being useful — stands re-torqued and solid in the corner, and I know exactly whose work that is because Jack left the little ratchet wrench on the windowsill like a signature, too proud of the job to put his tools away properly.
Miriam's cuttings sit along the sill in three mismatched jars, rooting
