The morning after her last chemo, I woke up first. The house was quiet, boxes stacked along the hallway.
She was still asleep, her hand curled around the edge of the blanket. I went to check the thermostat.
A piece of masking tape was stuck across it. In her handwriting: 'Don't touch. I'm finally warm.'
I stood there in my socks. Six months of shivering through every night, and now she was comfortable.
We're moving tomorrow. A two-bedroom with a backyard, the first place that's really ours. I've been saving every spare penny from the hardware store.
The tape is still on the thermostat. I'll leave it there until we carry the last box out.
She opened her eyes and smiled. 'You didn't change it, did you?'
I shook my head. 'I wouldn't dare.'
We've got a long road ahead, but this morning, for the first time in a while, the heat felt like a promise.