“You don’t understand.”
“Then help us understand,” Grace replied.
I stared at Sarah’s smile.
“If I spoke about her, I was afraid you would hear what I had lost instead of understanding what you gave me.”
Emily turned to the final page. Four names were written there:
Sarah.
Ivy.
Emily.
Grace.
My breath caught.
“You know about Ivy?”
They had discovered her blanket in the cedar box while searching for old decorations. For eighteen years, I had kept Ivy’s name hidden because speaking it made the loss feel immediate again. But my daughters had written her name beside their own as though she had always belonged there.
Then they handed me a letter. They wrote about the father who had found them when he had nothing left—the man who learned bottles, hair, homework, sickness, and fear. They had noticed that I avoided beaches and became distant near their birthday. For years, they wondered whether raising them had caused me pain.
Eventually, they understood. I had not loved them because I had forgotten Sarah and Ivy. I had loved them while continuing to miss Sarah and Ivy.
Their letter ended with a message Andrea had once shared with them:
“You never wanted us to save you. But you saved us first, Dad. We have spent eighteen years trying to return the favor.”
Emily held out the tickets.
“Come back with us.”
“I’m frightened,” I admitted.
“That’s why we’re going together.”
PART 3
