And the key — the new spare — hangs now on a hook inside the pantry, at Sophie’s eye level and Melissa’s reach and mine, where anyone in this family can find it, because it no longer needs to be hidden.
The last brush stroke that day was Sophie’s. She stood on tiptoe and made a small purple heart in the corner by the window, where the sun hits first in the morning. Melissa and I added our thumbprints inside it, three overlapping marks that will be there long after the paint dries, long after Sophie is tall enough to paint her own house.
We stood back and looked at it, our arms around each other, breathing in the smell of fresh paint and possibility, and we were finally, completely, home.
