That is not love’s math.
Love’s math is quieter.
It is being on the second floor when no one is watching with a needle in the years before the storm.
Some people don’t make a key for you on the day you need it.
They make the key years in advance.
They keep it in a drawer.
They wait.
If you’ve ever been the quiet one in a loud family, listen.
The people who love you don’t always say it.
Sometimes they sign the deed.
Sometimes they stitch your name into wool.
Sometimes they spend 9 years building a door.
And they put it where you can find it when you finally have to walk through one.
I’m Amber Ferrell.
I am 25 years old.
I live at 818 Cherrybend Road in the house my grandfather built with his own hands in 1971 and left to me in 2016 and handed me by way of a brass key in a walnut box on the coldest morning of my life.
I have a fireplace.
I have a stocking on the mantle with my name embroidered in red thread.
And I have a door.
The door he built for me before I knew I would need one.
