The grey, sterile paint that Sloane had chosen was gone.

In its place was a warm, creamy off-white that caught the afternoon light.

I walked into the living room.

The modern, uncomfortable furniture Sloane had ordered was piled in a corner, tagged for removal.

My grandmother’s oak table sat in its rightful place near the window.

The deep scratches in the wood had been polished out.

A workman in denim overalls was in the kitchen, carefully installing the original brass hardware on the cabinets.

He looked up and tipped his cap.

“Just finishing up the trim, ma’am,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said.

I carried Amelia down the hallway.

My heart beat faster as I approached the door at the very end.

This was the room Sloane had tried to turn into her personal walk-in closet.

I pushed the door open.

The smell of cedar and lavender met me.

The walls were painted a soft, pale yellow.

The sun streamed through the large bay window, illuminating the rocking chair in the corner.

My mother’s crib stood against the far wall, its white wooden spindles gleaming.