An Empty Apartment, A Haunted Body, and A Crowded House

The very first thing I did when I found out I was pregnant with Thomas was google “triple bunk beds.” I did this even before I went downstairs to tell Zac, who was in the kitchen making pancakes for the four children we already had. This is what is referred to as the presumptive close: yes, I’m pregnant again, and Wayfair has a triple bunk bed in stock now, free shipping, good reviews, only $539.

Our new house is 1504 square feet, or as I used to say, 250 square feet per person. Now that Thomas is here, we’re down to 214 square feet each, or about the size of a generous parking space (think Costco, not Trader Joe’s). I knew we had room in our lives and hearts for another person, but I wasn’t sure we had room in our rooms. (Thank god we have high ceilings.)

Right now Beatrice, Arthur, and William are on a trip to Alaska with their dad for a month, leaving just Margaret, Thomas, Zac, and me in the house with 642 square feet to spare. You might think the house would feel more spacious with the older kids away, but in fact, it feels exactly the same: their presence is so large and lasting, you feel it everywhere.

I grew up in a series of small homes, where my parents, my sister, and I spent a lot of time together in close spaces. I did my homework on the same kitchen table where my mom spread out her sewing patterns, read Seventeen next to my dad dozing under a library book, later I would log onto AOL in the living room while my parents watched TV. My younger sister and…