MY HUSBAND RAISED HIS CHAMPAGNE GLASS AND TOLD ME TO DIE QUIETLY, COMPLETELY CERTAIN HE WAS READING MY CANCER RESULTS—UNTIL I SAID, “CHECK THE PATIENT’S NAME, YOU IDIOT.”

The winter solstice brought the shortest day of the year, but inside my downtown penthouse, the space was flooded with warmth, candlelight, and the soft acoustic notes of jazz drifting from the sound system.

Uncle Marcus had invited a small circle of close friends and colleagues over for an intimate dinner party to celebrate the firm’s two-year anniversary.

As the evening wound down and the guests drifted out onto the terrace to watch the snow begin to dust the glittering Chicago skyline, I stepped into my home study.

The room was quiet. The oak drafting table stood clean and polished against the wall.

I walked over, resting my hands on the smooth wood surface, looking down at the blank sheet of vellum paper waiting beneath the gooseneck lamp.

Uncle Marcus stepped into the doorway, holding a glass of wine, leaning against the frame with a warm, knowing smile.

“Penny for your thoughts, master architect,” Marcus teased softly.

I looked up, turning to face him. “I was just thinking about how strange life is, Uncle Marcus. How quickly a blueprint can change if you’re brave enough to tear up the old drafts.”

Marcus walked over, setting his wine glass down on the edge of the desk, and gently squeezed my shoulder.