At exactly 11:47 on Christmas Eve, my husband accidentally sent me a photograph of himself in a hotel bed with his mistress while I was home alone caring for our two feverish babies.

the smell and insisted we should hire someone.

I’d wanted to make something for our children myself.

Looking at those stars, I realized how painful leaving this room would be.

Noah had first slept more than three hours here.

Lily had learned to roll over.

I’d soothed their colic and whispered promises into their hair after arguments with Cole.

It was their first home.

But walls weren’t safety.

Furniture wasn’t family.

And a nursery wasn’t worth remaining trapped.

At 3:38, Mr. Harris called.

“The vehicle will be downstairs at