Janet called on a Wednesday.
She had reviewed the estate documents available to her.
There were some questions about Paul's small individual account.
There was no evidence that the house had been incorrectly transferred.
The title and survivorship documents were clear.
The life-insurance payment also appeared consistent with its beneficiary designation.
Still, she wanted to obtain the remaining records before giving me a final assessment.
"We're not going to solve this by guessing," she said.
"I don't want to guess anymore."
I hung up and looked at my notebook.
I'd filled twenty-three pages.
Some contained dates.
Some contained questions.
Others were simply angry sentences I couldn't say to Paul.
I had written, Why weren't we enough?
Then I crossed out we.
Ivy hadn't been a failure of my marriage.
She was a child who existed.
The failure belonged to adults who made choices around her.
That afternoon I went to the bank.
A representative explained which historic statements were available and which required a written request.
I signed forms.
I showed identification.
I waited.
Nobody called a manager into the room and offered a dramatic revelation.
Financial work moved at the pace of signatures and office hours.
The available statements confirmed a series of payments.
Some had been made directly to Hannah.
Others went to a school account.
I took them to Janet.
She explained that contributions might matter to understanding Paul's conduct but didn't automatically determine every legal issue.
I asked whether I should send money to Grace.
"Do you want to?" she said.
"I don't know."
"Then wait until you understand what you're offering and why."
It was sensible advice.
It was also frustrating.
I wanted one decisive act to resolve the disorder in my chest.
Janet wouldn't give me one.
I drove to the grocery store and stood in front of the cereal for ten minutes.
It occurred to me that I had been using paperwork to avoid ordinary life.
The bills needed paying.
My car needed new tires.
I had promised to visit Claire's children on Saturday.
There was still a life waiting for me, even while Paul's hidden life unfolded.
At dinner I called Grace.
"I don't want Ivy to think I'm calling because I owe her something," I said.
Grace answered carefully.
"She wants to know about her father. She isn't asking you to settle a debt."
"I know. But money keeps coming up in my head."
"Then let's not discuss money with her."
"Agreed."
I asked whether Ivy needed anything for school.
Grace said she was managing.
I respected the answer.
We planned another library visit.
This time Ivy wanted to show me the science fair display she'd been building.
I bought a sandwich and sat at the table with a list of things I could tell her about Paul.
He couldn't sing.
He took too long to choose tomatoes.
He cried at an animated movie about a dog.
He hated wearing ties.
He once stopped our car to help a turtle cross the road.
I paused over that memory.
I could still see him standing in the sun with the turtle held carefully away from his shirt.
He had been genuinely kind to a frightened animal.
He had also lied to me for years.
I was beginning to understand that accepting both facts wasn't the same as excusing one.
Later that week, Janet confirmed that any remaining estate question would require careful review under the law of the state where Paul died and where the estate was administered.
She recommended that Grace obtain advice for Ivy from a lawyer who did not represent me.
I told Grace.
She thanked me.
We didn't argue about a dollar amount.
There was no threatening letter.
There was simply a child who needed adults to handle adult matters responsibly.
On Friday, Denise called.
She had spoken to Grace.
Her voice trembled.
"Ivy wants to meet me."
I sat down.
"How do you feel?"
"Terrified."
"Good. Maybe that means you'll be careful."
She gave a small, sad laugh.
"I intend to be."
I told her not to make grand promises.
She said she wouldn't.
I told her not to bring presents every time.
She said she had already bought a doll.
We both laughed then.
It was an awkward laugh.
But it was real.
That night I noticed I hadn't checked Paul's old account for two days.
I made tea.
I watched a documentary.
I went to bed before midnight.
The documents would still exist in the morning.
There was another appointment I had been putting off.
The accountant who prepared our taxes wanted to close an old question about Paul's final return.
I had ignored two messages.
When I finally met her, she didn't know about Ivy.
I told her only what was relevant to the records.
She checked the receipts and explained which expenses belonged to Paul's accounts.
She asked whether I'd retained copies of the original filings.
I had.
We went through them line by line.
Nothing about the appointment was exciting.
There were no missing fortunes.
There was no account that suddenly contained hundreds of thousands of dollars.
We found a small inconsistency in an expense category.
She explained how she would handle the correction if needed.
I signed an authorization.
Then she gave me a list of documents to retain.
I left carrying a thin folder.
It was easier than I feared.
I wished I'd gone weeks earlier.
On the way home I stopped at the park where Paul used to walk Pepper.
The bench near the pond had been painted green.
There was a sign asking visitors not to feed the ducks.
I sat for a while.
A man walked past with a dog so excited it nearly pulled him into the water.
I laughed.
Then I missed Pepper intensely.
I missed the uncomplicated love of an animal who had never been required to explain anything.
The feeling passed slowly.
I took a photograph of the pond and sent it to Claire.
She answered with a picture of her son's muddy shoes.
Life is glamorous, she wrote.
I smiled.
When I got home, the mailbox held a card from Ivy.
She had drawn a bridge with a dog crossing it.
Underneath she wrote that Pepper could visit whenever he liked, even in a picture.
I pinned it beside the first drawing.
The refrigerator was becoming a small gallery.
That evening I reviewed my monthly budget.
I calculated how much I was comfortable saving.
I made sure I had funds for repairs, insurance, and retirement.
Then I wrote a separate number on a sticky note.
It was the amount I might contribute toward Ivy's education.
I didn't call Grace immediately.
I slept on it.
The next morning the number still felt reasonable.
I put the note in my planning folder and scheduled a conversation with Janet.
I was learning to make financial decisions when I felt steady rather than when I felt guilty.
Click here to continue reading: PART 10: At Ivy’s School Fair, I Saw How Much She Needed Adults Who Would Stay
The Black Canvas Bag Beside Paul’s Headstone Held a Photograph I Had Never Seen
Part 9 of 16
