In the center of the room stood a massive, collapsible gray playpen.

Stacked in the corner were towers of plastic diaper bins, a baby swing that hummed on its base, and three boxes of disposable wipes.

I turned my head toward the window alcove.

My grandmother’s heavy cast-iron Singer sewing machine, housed in its ornate oak cabinet, was gone.

In its place sat a bulky white plastic changing table.

My chest felt tight, the air stuck in my throat.

I walked over to the changing table and touched the plastic surface, my fingers trembling.

The sewing machine had been in our family for three generations.

My grandmother had taught me to sew my first stitches on it when I was seven.

I turned around and ran out of the room, my soft-soled shoes squeaking on the hallway floorboards.

I descended the stairs, my hand sliding heavily along the wooden banister.

The laughter from the living room grew louder with every step.

I walked straight into the kitchen, where Rylan was leaning against the counter, pouring himself a glass of iced tea.