Chapter 4: The Garage Becomes Home
The first night in the garage was the coldest.
The thin blanket did almost nothing against the November wind that slipped through every crack in the old garage door. I lay on the folding bed with both hands on my belly, trying to keep the baby warm. Every time the wind gusted, I felt the cold seep into my bones.
From inside the house, I could hear the television playing. Laughter. The clink of wine glasses. They were having a late Thanksgiving dinner without me.
I didn’t cry. I had already cried enough in the months after Daniel died.
Instead, I pulled my laptop from under the bed, connected to the neighbor’s weak Wi-Fi signal, and kept working.
The code glowed softly on the screen in the dark garage. Line after line. Fix after fix. I worked until my fingers went numb and my back ached from sitting on the hard mattress.
Around 3 a.m., the baby kicked hard, as if reminding me I wasn’t alone.
“I know,” I whispered. “I’m almost done. Then we’ll be okay.”
May you like
I didn’t know if that was true.
But I kept typing anyway.
