And approximately six hundred square feet of space.
"It's not empty."
"It needs a fort."
"Why?"
She stares at me.
"Because it's a cabin."
As arguments go, it's surprisingly effective, so fort construction begins immediately.
I spend the next thirty minutes being ordered around by a seven-year-old.
Pillows move.
Blankets move.
Furniture moves.
At one point I am instructed to hold up a comforter while Jillie evaluates structural integrity.
I don't know what that means.
Apparently neither does she.
Still.
The fort expands and eventually occupies half the living room.
Jillie stands back admiring her work.
"Perfect."
It looks ridiculous.
It is absolutely perfect.
Sadie laughs so hard she nearly spills her cocoa.
And once again I discover my favorite sound.
Her laughter.
Warm. Real. Unfiltered.
The kind that reaches her eyes.
The kind nobody photographs.
The kind nobody else gets to see.
That realization hits harder than it should.
Because lately there seem to be a lot of things I don't want to share.
Including moments.
