Chapter 8
“Can I write her a note?”
My first instinct was to say no. But I have learned that protecting my daughter doesn’t mean deciding who she is allowed to be. So I found a piece of paper and a purple marker, and I let her write whatever she wanted. I didn’t read it. Daniel walked it across the street and handed it through the car window.
He stood there for a minute while his mother read it. Then he came back.
Patricia’s car didn’t leave right away. It stayed there for almost ten minutes before it finally pulled off the curb and disappeared down the street.
That night, after the guests had gone and Lily was in bed, I asked Daniel what the note said.
“She wrote it in cursive,” he said, smiling a little. “She’s very proud of her cursive.”
“Daniel.”
He pulled out his phone. He had taken a picture of it before handing it over.
Dear Grandma,
I am not faking. I never was. My allergy is real, and it is not my fault, and it is not Mom’s fault. I was scared that day and I tried to be quiet so you wouldn’t be mad. I’m not going to be quiet anymore when something is wrong.
I learned that from Mom. Maybe you can learn it too.
If you ever want to see me again, you have to believe me first.
Love, Lily
I read it three times. Then I set the phone down and cried the way I hadn’t let myself cry in the hospital hallway, in the courtroom, or on any of the long nights in between.
Patricia wrote back two weeks later.
It came by regular mail, addressed to Lily, and I read it first, because some things are still my job. It was short. Her handwriting was shakier than I remembered.
She said she had been wrong. Not “mistaken,” not “misunderstood,” but wrong. She said that in her class, the instructor had shown a short video of a child having an allergic reaction, and the child in the video had tried to apologize to the adults, too. She said she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about that. She said she believed Lily now, and she was sorry it had taken almost losing her for her to understand.
At the bottom, she had written one more line.
You were never trouble. You were a little girl who needed help, and I didn’t give it to you. I will spend the rest of my life being sorry for that.
I gave Lily the letter. She read it twice, folded it carefully, and put it in the drawer where she keeps her most important things: a ribbon from the science fair, a photo of her and Grandma Rose, and the otter from the hospital.
“I’m not ready to see her yet,” she said.
“You don’t have to be.”
“But maybe someday.”
“Maybe someday,” I agreed.
People sometimes ask me how I stayed so calm that day. How I didn’t scream at the nurses, or at Claire on the phone, or at Daniel in the hallway.
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