Chapter 9 - Morning Mist
The fire was small.
An electrical short in the garage.
A neighbor smelled smoke and called the department before flames reached the rest of the house.
I had kept the property after the divorce because neither of us had been ready to sell.
I hadn’t been back in weeks.
Sophie insisted on going.
“You just had a biopsy.”
“I want to see it.”
We arrived as firefighters were packing equipment.
The garage door was blackened.
The house itself remained intact.
A fire captain walked us through the safe areas.
Then Sophie stopped outside the old nursery.
“You kept it locked?”
I looked at the door.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I had no good answer.
I opened it.
The room was exactly as it had been after we painted over Morning Mist.
White walls.
Empty floor.
Closed blinds.
Sophie stepped inside.
Then she noticed the corner behind the old bookcase.
A strip of pale gray-blue paint remained where the roller had never reached.
Morning Mist.
She touched it.
“You missed a spot.”
“I guess I did.”
She smiled sadly.
“No.”
Her finger stayed against the paint.
“Maybe we needed to.”
I stood beside her.
“I still have the samples.”
She looked at me.
“What?”
“In the garage.”
“You kept them?”
“I couldn’t throw them away.”
Sophie stared at me.
Then she started laughing through tears.
“You painted over the nursery and kept the paint samples?”
“I wasn’t very emotionally consistent.”
“No.”
Her laughter became crying.
“God, Ethan.”
I held her.
She leaned against me.
Then my phone rang.
Hospital.
Sophie went still.
I answered.
Dr. Patel’s voice came through.
“The biopsy results are back.”
My stomach tightened.
“Already?”
“Yes.”
Sophie watched my face.
Dr. Patel continued.
“The tissue is inflammatory.”
I closed my eyes.
“Not lymphoma?”
“No malignant cells.”
I nearly collapsed with relief.
Sophie covered her mouth.
I put the call on speaker.
Dr. Patel explained that the existing treatment appeared to be working.
Her next cycle would be delayed until she fully recovered from the infection.
When the call ended, Sophie sat on the nursery floor.
I joined her.
“We got good news.”
“Yes.”
“Why do you look terrified?”
She stared at the Morning Mist patch.
“Because every time I start believing something might be okay, something happens.”
I understood.
Hope had become dangerous for both of us.
So I didn’t tell her everything would be fine.
I didn’t make a promise I couldn’t guarantee.
I simply sat beside her.
Twenty minutes later, Sophie pointed toward the closet.
“Did you ever empty that?”
“No.”
She opened it.
Inside was one cardboard box.
She knelt and lifted the lid.
Then stopped breathing.
At the top lay a tiny pair of yellow baby socks.
Neither of us remembered buying them.
Beneath them was an envelope.
My handwriting was on the front.
FOR SOPHIE.
I stared at it.
She looked at me.
May you like
“What is this?”
And I suddenly remembered writing a letter I had been too afraid to give her.
