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Month Seventy-Six: May
Seven months until Killian came home.
Two hundred and twelve days.
Isla started preparing. Practically. Emotionally. Logistically.
The apartment needed changes. Killian's clothes were still there—six years old, outdated, reminders of a different man. She packed them. Donated most. Kept a few pieces for sentiment.
Made space in the closet. In the drawers. In their life.
For the man coming home. The stranger she'd married. The partner she'd missed. The father Sera barely knew.
"Why you doing all this now, mama?" Sera asked, watching Isla reorganize.
"Because dada needs space when he comes home. Needs room for his things. Needs—needs to feel like this is his home too."
"It is his home. It always been his home."
"I know. But he hasn't lived here in six years. He might feel like a guest. Like he doesn't belong. I'm making sure he knows he belongs."
"Will he sleep in your room? With you?"
