Rick changed the acoustics of my life. A high school biology teacher—steady, patient, soft-spoken—he had eyes that held more calm than I believed the world still owned. We met at a friend’s barbecue, where I baptized his shirt with a full pour of red within five minutes of hello. I sputtered apologies; he laughed, looked at the stain, then at me. “Well, now we’re officially introduced. I’m Rick.” It wasn’t fireworks. It was a quiet tide that kept showing up, rearranging the shoreline until the shape finally made sense.

Two years later we married, and our conversations began to drift toward midnight feedings and crayon murals on the fridge. We painted the spare room a soft gray. We assembled a crib