My own daughter told me, “Mom, don’t come to the l…

I chose the stone for the fireplace after driving to three separate yards and tapping each sample with my fingernail because Samuel used to do that and say stone ought to sound honest. I chose brushed brass fixtures for the kitchen. Matte black hooks for the mudroom.

Deep green paint for the front door because Samuel always said green was the color of home. I chose a farmhouse sink with an apron front and enough room to wash peaches in. I chose the porch swing myself and made Earl move it three inches farther toward the west side because I wanted whoever sat there to see the exact line where the sky turned copper before dark.

It took eleven months. Every other weekend, I drove up from Atlanta to check on the progress. I brought Earl coffee and sandwiches.

I swept sawdust off the porch before the railings were even finished. I learned the names of three subcontractors and one electrician’s dog. When the kitchen cabinets went in, I stood in the center of the room after everyone left and cried so hard the sound bounced off the unfinished walls and came back to me like another woman sobbing in some version of my life where Samuel was still alive to hear it.