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He had started it after Mia told him she was pregnant, back when her marriage still seemed like something that could be repaired with good news.
He had sat in his garage in the evenings with the radio low and a paper coffee cup going cold on the workbench.
He had sanded every rail until Mia could run her hand over the walnut and feel no rough edge at all.
He had carved a small rose into the inside of one corner because Mia’s mother used to grow roses along the fence.
He had died in early spring, before the baby shower, before the first real kick, before Mia could tell him they were naming the baby after him in the middle name no one else would hear unless she chose to tell them.
That crib was the last thing he gave them.
Evan knew that.
So did Patricia.
She stood in the doorway behind him, wearing her taupe winter coat with the fur-trimmed collar, her purse tucked neatly under one arm.
She looked like she had come prepared.
“Your daughter won’t know the difference,” Patricia said.
Mia turned toward her.
Patricia’s mouth was pinched.
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