I collapse to the ground next to her, letting the hardware fall from my hands so my fingers can touch the soft pieces of material, hundreds of squares, weighing down Joyce’s legs. I lift a stack and look to her. “May I?” I ask.

She nods.

I pull the strips into my lap and flip through them slowly, like a picture book in slow motion—showing nothing but lost hopes and dreams, plans never realized and heartbreak found.

“I think we should use them,” I say. I feel Joyce look up at me quickly, and I’m scared to take in her expression—so I wait a beat before meeting her eyes.

She’s smiling, though, her lips growing fuller with every nod of her head.

Together, we carry the material into Leah’s room and begin knotting the strips together into a colorful rainbow of rope. Eventually, I let Joyce take over tying, and I begin wrapping the strips around the hoop, letting long pieces drape down every few inches, like a tent.

Once we have it completely wrapped, we slide Leah’s bed out of the way and drag over the ladder, so I can stand high enough to bolt and tie the hoop to the ceiling. When we slide her bed back, Beth’s material frames it perfectly, the quilt she never got to finish, instead becoming a tower of strength—a place where Leah can escape to hide…become strong.

“I love it,” she says, this time her voice a whisper. It’s as if somehow she knows that this new addition is more important than everything else. Perhaps one day Joyce will tell her. Or maybe Houston will. It’s not my story or my place, but I’m honored to have been a part of rebuilding something for everyone in this house.

We leave Leah in her tower as she busies herself moving her animal friends around her bed, deciding who gets to be in the tower with her.

I follow Joyce downstairs, and when I let my legs hit the edge of the sofa, my body follows, every last drop of energy gone.

“I’ll make you coffee,” Joyce says, somehow still strong enough to be able to walk through the kitchen, to clean the counters, and put away dishes. I think maybe for Joyce, stopping is when things get bad—so she doesn’t stop.

She brings me my cup, and leans against one of the arms of the sofa, never letting herself fully sit. Her gaze is lost on a clock on the mantle behind me. It’s old, carved in wood, and beautiful.

“I love that piece,” I say. Her eyes slide to meet mine slowly, and her faint smile comes to life.

“Thank you. My husband made it,” she says. I turn to look at it again, noticing the hand-painted touches. It’s really a work of art.

“He was very talented,” I say.

We both sip from our cups, looking at the mantle for a few quiet seconds.

“So are you,” she says. She isn’t loud when she speaks, but for some reason, her words surprise me. Maybe it’s what she says that surprises me. “You’re very talented, Paige. What you did in there…that was special.”

I nod, glancing at her then looking back at the clock, pretty sure I’m nothing compared to the man who made that. “Thank you,” I whisper, blowing on the hot liquid in my hands.

“Houston is a lot like Michael,” she says. She’s speaking about her husband; I can tell by the reverent tone she’s using, so I give her my full respect and set my cup down, turning to face her, my hands folded on my lap. “Michael was the man of the house,” she laughs. “He was so busy. All the time, making sure everyone else was okay, that everything was running, that we were all clothed and fed and happy. When he was gone…Houston stepped right in and took over.”

“But nobody has done that for Houston, Paige,” she says, looking back at the clock again, taking a slow drink from her cup, swallowing slowly. When she looks back at me, her smile has finally found its way to feeling complete. “Nobody…until you.”

I’m not sure how to respond; uncomfortable under the pressure her words put on me, but thrilled to hear them. I soak in the silence between us, under the beam of her smile for several seconds, until the sound of the door sliding open startles us both.

“Hey, Ma…I forgot to bring home chicken and milk, so I’ll…” he stops as soon as he sees us both. We look ragged, our hair matted and our arms covered in dots of paint. I can barely move, but somehow I stand.

I bite my lip as I step closer to him.

“I’ll pick some up tomorrow, honey. I’m heading up to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Joyce says, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek, winking at me from the side when she does.

“It’s seven-thirty,” Houston says, shaking his head and looking between the two of us. “You’re going to bed at seven-thirty?”