Two months later, the final custody and divorce decree arrived at my new apartment.

It was a small, quiet place in a historic brick building near the river.

I had set up a small workbench in the sunroom, where the light was best.

The smell of sawdust, tung oil, and old oak filled the room.

In the corner, Maisie lay in her wooden cradle, sleeping peacefully.

I had carved the cradle myself from a solid block of walnut.

I was working on a mid-century sideboard, scraping away the layers of cheap varnish Nolan had insisted on using to cover the beautiful grain.

My hands were stained with dark walnut dye.

My fingernails were short and clean.

There was a knock on the workshop door.

My father walked in, carrying a thermos of coffee and a morning newspaper.

“How is the sideboard coming?” he asked, walking over to the cradle to look at Maisie.

“The wood is beautiful underneath,” I said, wiping my hands on a rag.

“It just needed someone to take the time to clean it.”

He set the newspaper on the workbench.