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to the middle a little bit. I want to get both bikes in the picture. Perfect. Smile."

The house is quiet. I am dusting. One by one, I pull out the outdated photo albums that catalogued our three years of dating. I have to give this shelf a good cleaning. For too many years I have dusted around them, without any interest to peek inside. They seemed to hold a certain magic that I had forgotten long ago. Who were these people? I imagined it would be painful to remember, so I neatly file each one on the shelf. The strange thing is, the heart doesn't forget, and I know that in the ivory floral album are the pictures of a devoted fiancé in a knight's costume, kneeling before his princess as a prelude to a harvest party. I know there are pictures of sunny afternoon hikes in the forest. A hand crafted spud gun he was so proud of. And pictures of those frivolous, shiny bikes. Each album holds some key to happiness. Along the way, I seemed to have forgotten how to unlock that door. My heart is sealed. I do not want to open them. It will hurt too much to see our love, raw, unharmed. These are my "ever-after" albums, and the magic remains tucked inside. I push back the thought. I am not ready for it. It will cost me everything. The key is forgiveness.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Eleven
     
    Margaret Catherine-Clare had come wiggling into the world on a summer evening, following an uncomplicated and routine delivery. I nearly snatch her from the nurse's clutch and put her immediately to my breast to nurse. She was absolutely perfect in every way. I remember thinking she wasn't quite as refined as her brother had been at birth, but she was in fact, perfect.

Everyone peeked, cooed and sighed, and she was back in the custody of the nursing staff. I hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours, and just before I drifted into sleep, I felt the warmth of his body as he leaned down to kiss my cheek. "You did great, baby," he whispered tenderly, and I remember smiling and sinking into slumber. He brushed my hair off my forehead with a gentle touch, and I knew that he was once again, feeling that immense pride, relief, joy and beauty of becoming a father. And this time, to a girl. The girl I had always dreamed of. My Maggie.

I spent two blissful days in the hospital with her, interrupted only by a few visits. Gregory and Sam came both days to see us, and then happily retreated to the man-cave they were enjoying in my absence.
    All I had wanted to do was hold and nurse her, stare at her and touch her. The feeling of joy was immeasurable. I couldn't believe this was my baby girl, stripped of the hospital attire and clad in pink and lavender ruffled pajamas that arrived one by one in stiff, bright gift bags.

The months that followed were dreamy. I was no longer working, and I was able to nurse her and be there for each miracle of growth as it unfolded. I was the happy mom of two precious children, the "million-dollar" family as it's often called, and somehow, I failed to notice that weekly expenditures such as groceries and fuel for the car were habitually being put on the credit card, and the mounting bill, worse still, did not frighten me.

I would go to work eventually and the first thing would be to pay off the debt. My place was in the home, I reminded myself. It would all work out. Gregory was happy that I was home, caring for the children. Dinner was on the table every evening. He was working day shifts. I would sing while folding laundry. I painted the living room and bedroom while the kids napped. He called me his little squirrel, bustling about the place, nesting. For the first time in a few years, our lives were happy. And I was determined to keep it that way, no matter the cost.

In this case, the price was deception. He never knew about the mounting credit card debt. I would keep it secret as long as I could. I could not imagine anything shattering our happiness. But that day would come, and it would seem that the damage