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11

PEYTON

Tilly is down for her nap in Ollie’s room when I start prepping the nursery wall. Palms resting on my hips, I stare at the off-white for a while before I open the paint cans. I’ve been itching to paint since I arrived. Since before, if I’m honest. Months of ideas piled up in my brain with nowhere to go. I used to tell myself that not everything needed to be turned into a project. But the truth is I didn’t just stop painting because life got busy. I stopped because my ex treated it like my joy was clutter in his life.

I tape the edges of the wall with care, spread a drop cloth on the floor and line up the little containers of paint. Soft greens. Muted blues. Warm reds and neutrals. Plus a touch of yellow that feels nuanced. I don’t overthink the design, picturing what I want Tilly to see when she wakes up.

Dipping my brush into the first color, I press it to the wall. My shoulders loosen a fraction the moment the bristles meet the surface. It’s wonderful how fast my body remembers this. My wrist relaxes into a familiar curve and my breathing slows as soon as I have something else to focus on other than my thoughts.

Time moves strangely when I paint. Minutes stretch, but hours go by quickly. Thoughts wander in and out. I lose myself and my hands know what to do even when my heart doesn’t. I paint soft arcs, then layer shapes over them, creating depth without sharp lines. I add hints of pale yellow where the light would hit if this were a real garden. The colors are calm, but not boring. A small part of me wonders if I’m doing this for Tilly or for myself. Maybe both. Maybe I need a reminder that I can still create beauty after everything I’ve been through.

I’m in the flow when Tilly makes a noise on the baby monitor. Not a cry yet; just a little fussing. If I ignore the warning sign, it could escalate.

I set the brush down and clean my hands at the kitchen sink, scrubbing paint from under my nails. Once they’re clean enough, I undo my overalls, tying them around my waist.

By the time I get to Ollie’s darkened room, Tilly is restless. “Hi, my little love,” I whisper.

I settle her against my shoulder. She quiets almost immediately, cheek warm against my collarbone, her body heavy with sleep again. I sway, pacing the room, taking the details in. The room smells faintly of cedar and the laundry detergent he, well now we, use. The crib is wedged beside Ollie’s bed. Above the headboard hangs the art piece he told me about, the design stark and striking. On his bedside table, there’s a small stack of books, including a dog-eared copy of a self-help book and a children’s book that clearly wandered in with Tilly. I chuckle at the contrast. A chipped ceramic bowl holds loose change and a lone guitar pick.

“You’re going to have the coolest wall,” I whisper to Tilly. “Just so you know.”

She sighs, then her fingers curl into my shirt. I feel the gesture deep in my chest. That tug, a quiet longing of sorts, has been living in me as a second heartbeat since my diagnosis. The one I’ve tried to ignore for years because it hurt too much.

I press my nose to her soft hair and inhale the baby scent. For a blissful moment, I let myself imagine a life that includes tiny footprints and painted nursery walls. A life where motherhood isn’t a dream dangled in front of me like a cruel joke. Then I pull myself back. Tilly isn’t mine, I remind myself. It’s my job to care for her and be grateful for the experience. But one day I’ll have to let go of her.

I hold my breath as I lower her into the crib. She stirs once, then settles, face relaxing. I exhale slowly.

The paint dried a bit while I was holding her. I adjust the palette, add a touch more green and keep going. The nursery smells of paint, baby powder and freshness from the open window. The light has shifted, making the soft yellows glimmer when the rays hit the wall.

I step back, smiling to myself as I evaluate the progress so far. I’m not done, but I can see my vision coming together. It’s really good. By the time I finish, this room will look like it’s been waiting for her all along.

The front door opens around noon. I don’t jump this time, used to the sound of Ollie coming and going. “In here,” I call out.

He appears in the doorway, hair slightly damp, having changed out of his work shirt into a plain black tee. His gaze goes straight to the wall. “Wow.”

“Too much?”

“No,” he says immediately. “It’s…wow.”

There’s a hint of amazement in his voice that has my heart beating faster. I like it. “I figured I’d start today while Tilly’s down. I hope that’s okay.”

“More than okay,” he replies. “It already feels different here.” Ollie steps closer, careful not to touch anything. He studies the colors, his eyes tracking the details. “It feels…peaceful.”

“That’s the goal,” I admit.

He glances at me instead of the art. “You’re really talented.”

“Thanks,” I say, unsure how to process the compliment. “It helps to have something to do with my hands.”

Ollie nods like he understands that too. Like he also knows the need to stay busy so your mind doesn’t drown you.

“What do you call it?” he asks.

I blink in confusion. “The mural?”

“Yeah. Does it have a name?”

I look at the wall, then back at him. “Not yet.”