He helped us move the following Saturday.

He drove the rental truck himself, lifting the heavy boxes of my design books without complaint.

He assembled Rosie’s new bed frame in her bedroom.

When he finished, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

“It’s a good house, Emily,” he said, looking around the small room.

“It’s ours,” I said.

He smiled, a genuine, rare smile that reached his eyes.

The winter months were cold and busy.

I worked long hours, but I always made sure to be home when Rosie got off the bus.

Nathan visited three times a week.

He never showed up unannounced.

He always called first, asking if he could bring dinner.

Sometimes we ordered pizza and ate it on the floor of the living room because I hadn’t bought a dining table yet.

Other times, he took us to a quiet diner near the park.

I watched him with Rosie.

He listened to her stories about her teacher and her friends with absolute attention.

He didn’t talk down to her.

He treated her like a person whose thoughts mattered.