SERA

Five years later.

The East Wing nursery had been expanded twice.

Ronan’s room was the original — Morning Song yellow walls, the handmade crib replaced by

a toddler bed and then by a proper bed with wolf-print sheets that he’d chosen himself with

the fierce independence of a five-year-old who had opinions about everything and the

stubbornness to defend them. His sister Maren’s room was next door, painted a deep, warm

blue because she’d screamed bloody murder at the yellow swatch ...