door.
He renovated it gradually, room by room.
And he left my little blue house exactly as it was.
Because he’d finally understood something important.
Vermont wasn’t where I’d hidden because I was frightened of the world.
It was my home.
On Poppy’s second birthday, Adrian came over carrying a small cake.
There were no photographers.
No executives.
No extravagant celebration.
Just a few people who loved one little girl.
Adrian helped Poppy blow out the candles.
She rewarded him by smearing frosting across his nose.
He laughed.
I laughed
