A week later, Grace sent me a message.
Ivy wanted to write.
Grace asked whether I would be willing to receive a letter without promising an answer.
I said yes.
The envelope arrived three days later.
It was pale blue.
My name was printed in careful letters.
Inside was a sheet of notebook paper.
Dear Megan, it began.
My aunt says you were married to my dad.
She says he was kind to you, but he kept things secret.
I don't know what to say about that.
I am ten.
I like science and drawing horses.
My mom used to say my dad could fix almost anything.
I think I would have liked to know him longer.
I hope it was okay that I came to the cemetery.
I did not want to make you sad.
Love, Ivy.
I read the letter sitting on the floor.
She had not asked me for a mother.
She had not asked for money.
She had asked whether her presence was allowed.
I held the paper against my knees.
I knew that feeling.
When Paul died, people decided what my grief should look like.
Some asked when I would date again.
Some asked whether I planned to sell the house.
A few told me that because we hadn't had children, I was free to begin another life.
I never felt free.
I felt as if someone had torn pages out of a book I was still reading.
Now Ivy was asking permission to read about her own father.
I put the letter on my desk.
Then I called Claire.
"She wrote to me."
"What did she say?"
I read it aloud.
Claire cried quietly at the other end.
"You don't have to answer immediately," she reminded me.
"I know."
"But you want to."
"I think so."
I spent an hour trying to write something useful.
The first version sounded like a school report.
The second was too apologetic.
The third accidentally blamed a child for adults' choices.
I tore them up.
Finally I wrote four sentences.
Dear Ivy,
I received your letter.
You did nothing wrong by visiting your father's grave.
It was his grave, and you have every right to miss him.
I need time to understand what happened, but I am glad you told me what you like.
I signed my name.
Then I added a small detail.
Paul used to draw horses very badly.
He always made their legs too short.
That was true.
I remembered a birthday card he had drawn for a niece.
The horse looked like a dog with a long face.
I smiled for the first time since finding the bag.
Then the smile faded.
I mailed the letter anyway.
That weekend I visited Grace at a café halfway between our towns.
I had suggested the meeting.
She wore a green sweater and carried a folder.
She looked older than I expected.
There were tired lines around her eyes.
She stood when I approached.
"Megan?"
"Yes."
We shook hands.
It felt formal and ridiculous.
We ordered coffee.
Grace didn't try to make friendly conversation.
She told me Hannah had worked at a dental office.
She had raised Ivy with help from Grace and their mother.
Hannah developed an illness years later.
Her treatment had been long.
Grace became Ivy's legal guardian after Hannah died.
They had spent months adapting to a new household.
"She still sleeps with the rabbit sometimes," Grace said.
"The one in the bag?"
"Yes. The ear keeps coming loose."
I looked at my coffee.
"Paul stitched it."
Grace nodded.
"She tells that story a lot."
I asked whether Ivy understood the difference between me and her mother.
"She does," Grace said.
"But children can hope for things they haven't said aloud."
"That's what worries me."
"It worries me too."
We agreed that if I met Ivy, it would be somewhere familiar to her.
Grace would stay nearby.
Nobody would announce that I had a new role in her life.
I asked whether a counselor was helping her with Hannah's death.
Grace said Ivy had been seeing a child therapist through a local practice.
The sessions were private.
Grace spoke with the therapist about transitions without asking Ivy to report every conversation.
I was grateful for that.
A child deserved at least one room in which adults did not demand answers.
Before leaving, Grace handed me a photocopy of Paul's note about the rabbit.
Ivy's rabbit broke an ear again, he had written.
She says he deserves a better tailor.
I promised to bring stronger thread next time.
I laughed unexpectedly.
Then I started crying.
Grace waited while I found a tissue.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"You don't have to be."
At home I opened a drawer in Paul's workshop.
There was a little sewing kit.
A spool of purple thread sat inside.
I hadn't noticed it in five years.
I bought new stationery after writing to Ivy.
At the store I stood before three shelves of paper.
There were floral designs and bright colors.
There were cards printed with sentimental messages.
I chose plain cream paper.
I didn't want a child to feel she needed to decode some elaborate promise.
For the next letter, I told her a short story about Paul trying to bake bread.
He had forgotten the yeast.
The dough looked like a flattened brick.
He insisted we slice it anyway.
I wrote that we laughed so hard the dog came running.
Ivy answered two weeks later.
She drew a loaf with tiny wheels and called it Dad's Bread Car.
I laughed until I cried.
Claire came over that evening and saw the drawing on the kitchen table.
"That's wonderful," she said.
"It is."
"Are you going to put it on the fridge?"
I hesitated.
Then I did.
The refrigerator had held reminders of appointments and grocery shopping for years.
Now it held a ridiculous cartoon loaf.
It made the room feel less solemn.
At our next café meeting, Grace told me Ivy had asked whether I was lonely.
"What did you say?" I asked.
"I told her adults are responsible for their own feelings."
I was grateful.
I didn't want Ivy carrying a duty to cheer me up.
Grace said the counselor had been helping Ivy name different kinds of family relationships.
They weren't trying to decide what I should be called.
They were helping her accept that people could care about her without becoming parents.
I asked whether Ivy had friends to talk to.
Grace nodded.
She named two girls from school and a cousin who visited often.
I liked knowing Ivy's life included people who had nothing to do with Paul's secret.
We finished our coffee.
Outside, Grace stopped beside her car.
"I need you to know I wasn't trying to punish you with that bag," she said.
"I know you weren't."
"I made a poor decision."
"You did."
She nodded.
"Thank you for being willing to talk afterward."
I looked at the traffic passing on the road.
"I wasn't ready to talk at first."
"I understand."
"I still won't always be ready."
"Then we'll ask."
It was a simple agreement.
I walked back to my car feeling that something useful had been built between us.
Not trust without limits.
Trust with room for saying no.
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: Meeting Ivy at the Library Made Paul’s Secret Feel Like a Real Child’s Ordinary Life
The Black Canvas Bag Beside Paul’s Headstone Held a Photograph I Had Never Seen
Part 7 of 16
