CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“Lester?” a voice called. My wife Amira called my name a few times.
I made my way down the third-floor steps cradling Marlese delicately in my arms. She had finished half her bottle.
“I’m upstairs, Am,” I said.
In the hallway, my son Marcus babbled something. I heard his footsteps running on the hardwood floor. He was two years older than Marlese and still learning how to run.
“Don’t touch that!” Amira said to him.
“Lester, I need a hand with groceries,” she said.
“On the way,” I said, turning down from the second-floor landing. My stained glass window was on fire from the magic hour sunset. I stopped on the stairs, stared at my thinking window, took in the moment, and thought, this is what it means to live the good life. Content baby in my arms, quiet house, an
