“Paige, hi,” she says, sounding genuinely happy to see me. “Houston’s…he’s working.”

“I know,” I say. “That’s why I’m here. He said…”

I’m not sure how to explain everything. There’s just so much. I unravel the blanket, letting the cans of paint roll out, the pillows unfurl, and the scraps of material and rollers and brushes fall loose.

“He wanted to fix up Leah’s room, but he didn’t quite get to it. I thought maybe I’d surprise him,” I say, standing on one side of the blanket from her that’s now stretched out like a do-it-yourself picnic between the two of us. When I glance up, I fully take her in for the first time. Her eyes are so tired as they graze over the supplies I’ve brought into the house.

“I’ll do it all. I didn’t want to make any work for you,” I start, but she jumps in.

“I wanna help,” she says, her lips in a soft line, the smile there when I look closely enough.

Taking one end of the blanket while I take the other, we both walk everything up the stairs, opening the door to Leah’s room and surprising her. Leah’s surrounded by stuffed animals, and when I glance to the small television on her night table, I see her favorite cartoon.

“Paige!” she squeals, running to me after taking a leap off of the end of her bed. Her force into me sends me back a step or two, but I hug her just as hard as she embraces me, bending down and kissing the top of her head. This is the first time I’ve ever kissed her. She feels like home.

I glance up at Joyce again, and her smile is growing.

“I hear you want a new room?” I ask. She runs back to her bed and stands on the end of it, bobbing on her toes, her tiny body teeming with nervous, excited energy.

“I do!” she says, clapping.

“Well, how about we make you one and get it all done before your dad comes home so we can surprise him?” I ask, my mind realizing the amount of work I’ve just signed up for. As creative as I am with my pencils, I’ve never really liked the doing it part of design. But I know I’ll have to embrace it one day, and I can’t think of a better way to start.

Without pause, we all jump in and begin removing things from her room, Joyce thoughtfully giving Leah directions to do small tasks that will keep her busy and invested without getting in our way. We work for two straight hours, painting her walls swirls of white and pink, and I spend another hour drawing a castle on the wall behind her bed with whatever paint is left. Exhausted, Joyce and I finally lean against either side of her doorframe admiring our work, watching as Leah spins in circles taking in her new surroundings.

“Do you love it?” I ask. I probably should have waited for her to say it on her own, but I’m just so anxious to know. She turns to me and grins—but then bites her lip. There’s something more; I can tell.

“Tell me,” I urge, hoping her request is something I can pull off.

“I was kind of hoping…that maybe I could live in the tower,” she says.

I look to Joyce, a little breathless. Leah wants to live in my fairytale—the one I made up just for her—and it makes my heart feel happier than it has in months. That, combined with the puzzled look on Joyce’s face, makes me laugh enough that my eyes water.

“She wants a tower,” I say.

Joyce is shaking her head; I think maybe begging me to find a way to divert Leah. But I won’t let her down. If she wants a tower, I’ll find her one.

Sucking in my top lip, I look around at the few things left in the hall that we pulled out of her room. When I see the hula-hoop, I know I’ve found gold.

“I need some material. Lots and lots of it,” I say to Joyce. She nods, then heads out into the hall, into the linen closet where she begins pulling down bags of old sheets and other things. I rush downstairs into the garage and search through a few bins I remembered Houston keeping in storage—finding a bundle of rope and a few hooks left over from the ones he hung up for my towels.

As I rush back up the stairs, I begin announcing I have it figured out, but quickly pause, noticing Joyce sitting on the floor, a pile of strips of material, all different colors, layered in her lap. Her eyes are glistening, and her lips are barely parted, her breath heavy.

“These were Beth’s,” she says in a giant exhale, looking at me finally, showing the pain and joy she’s feeling all at once. “She wanted to make Leah a quilt. She’d spent the last month of her pregnancy just cutting these strips, and she had planned on making it for her for her first birthday. She…she never got to sew a stitch.”