“Are you warm enough, baby?” I asked, my voice dropping into that slow, steady drawl I used to use when he was small.
He did not answer, but his eyes followed my hand as I twisted my plain gold wedding ring round and round my finger. It was a habit I could not break, a worn spot on my skin that felt like the only anchor left in this house.
Above the fireplace, the framed portrait of Roger looked down on us. Roger was smiling in the picture, his dark hair combed back with grease, his eyes clear and blue.
Euan lifted a small, pale hand from beneath the green wool blanket and pointed a finger at the glass frame.
“That is him,” Euan whispered, his voice barely carrying across the rug.
“That is your daddy,” I said, my throat dry as paper.
“He told me I could never go back to the brick house,” the boy said.
