“When?”
“I don’t know that either.”
Her eyes filled with frustration.
“But I remember her voice.”
I could barely speak.
“What did she say?”
Melissa closed her eyes.
When she answered, her voice was almost a whisper.
“She said, ‘Sweetheart, if you know me, squeeze my hand.’”
The late-afternoon wind moved through the trees surrounding Havenwood.
I stood between the daughter I had buried and the photograph written on by the wife I had lost.
For the first time, I understood that Calvin’s secret was only one part of what had happened.
Dorothy had been searching too.
And somewhere in the years we had spent grieving, there was still a missing piece of our family story waiting to be found.
PART 3
I did not sleep that night.
The photograph remained on my kitchen table beneath the yellow light above the stove.
Dorothy smiled from twenty-eight years earlier, baby Melissa tucked against her chest.
On the back were twelve words that had changed everything.
CALLED AGAIN TODAY. STILL NO CONFIRMATION. IF THERE IS EVEN A CHANCE, I HAVE TO KEEP LOOKING.
For seven years I had thought Dorothy died believing our daughter was gone.
Now I wasn’t sure.
At six the next morning, I opened a closet I had barely touched since Dorothy’s death.
Three storage boxes sat on the top shelf.
I knew what they contained.
Christmas cards.
Tax records.
Recipes.
The ordinary remains of forty-three years of marriage.
I carried them to the dining room and began searching.
At eight, my phone rang.
Calvin.
“I told Ava you know.”
I stopped turning pages.
“How is she?”
“Relieved.”
That single word made me close my eyes.
A seven-year-old should never have felt responsible for correcting the silence of three adults.
“Can I talk to her?”
A moment later, Ava came on.
“Grandpa?”
“Hello, sweetheart.”
“Are you mad?”
“No.”
“At me?”
“Especially not at you.”
She was quiet.
“I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“You told me the best way you knew.”
“Did you see her?”
I looked toward the photograph.
“Yes.”
“She’s nice.”
A laugh escaped me.
“Yes, she is.”
“She remembers the bunny.”
“I heard.”
“Dad said we can all have lunch when she’s ready.”
“I’d like that.”
Ava lowered her voice.
“Grandpa?”
“Yes?”
“Are you happy?”
The answer should have been easy.
Instead, I looked around the empty dining room.
