At home, I fetch my sewing box. A first anniversary gift from Brett, which I’ve used only once before. Next, I tip over the chairs so I can examine the underside. After three ripped fingernails and several f-bombs, I’ve removed the padded seat from each chair and pulled all of the upholstery staples out. I snip two squares of the new fabric to size with my heavy-duty shears, and position them over the new padding. At the center of my chair cushion will be a picture of the Falcon—I’ll take pleasure in sitting on the damn thing. At the center of his, the Death Star.
As I work, my eyes dart across the table to the tiny army of Lego characters lined up on his side of the table, facing me. A scatter of dried water droplets mark the table at their feet. These plastic people who get more of Bret
