I stopped.
Children grow.
Eventually they ask questions you hoped had disappeared.
I could have lied.
“No.”
But Amy’s letter had changed something in me.
Truth, age appropriate.
So I said:
“For one second.”
Ellie’s eyes widened.
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I was worried about money.”
She looked toward the ceiling.
“The roof.”
“Yes.”
“And medicine.”
“Yes.”
“Were you bad?”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“I was tempted.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Thinking something and choosing something are not the same.”
She considered this.
“So being good doesn’t mean you never think bad stuff?”
“No.”
“What does it mean?”
I smiled.
“It means you decide what to do next.”
She nodded.
Then handed me a dripping plate.
“I think I’m done.”
Apparently moral education did not extend to finishing chores.
Years passed.
Not many.
Enough.
Ellie became twelve.
Then thirteen.
She started rolling her eyes professionally.
The purple glasses became contacts.
Dolphins became marine biology.
For her thirteenth birthday, she asked to volunteer at the family center.
I told her volunteers had to follow rules.
She said:
“I’m literally the ring girl.”
I immediately regretted anyone ever using that phrase.
At sixteen, she finally learned the full amount in her education trust.
She sat in stunned silence.
Then said:
“Can I buy a boat?”
“No.”
“A small boat?”
“No.”
“What is money even for?”
“Education.”
“That’s very narrow.”
“Trust documents often are.”
She groaned.
Then became serious.
“Mom knew?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
“You were four when she died.”
“Right.”
She looked down.
“Do you think she thought about me growing up?”
The question broke my heart.
“Every day.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she wrote about you.”
I gave Ellie a copy of Amy’s letter.
Not the original.
That stayed with me.
Ellie read it alone.
Then came downstairs crying.
“She told you to have a life.”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
I thought about Tuesday painting.
The caregiver board.
Rebecca.
Trips with Ellie.
The used SUV.
A small garden I finally planted.
“Yes.”
I smiled.
“I think I did.”
“Good.”
She hugged me.
Then whispered:
“Because you’re old.”
I pushed her away.
“Get out.”
She laughed.
At eighteen, Ellie graduated high school.
We held a party in the backyard.
Nothing expensive.
String lights.
Food from a local restaurant.
Rebecca cried.
Thomas pretended not to.
Benjamin gave Ellie a stethoscope as a joke because everyone assumed she would go into medicine.
