“Why outside?” I asked.
Gracie shrugged. “I didn’t know if there was room.”
I crouched beside her. “There is always room for you.”
She looked at the picture, then picked up a purple crayon and drew herself inside the doorway.
That was the first small victory.
In the afternoon, Mrs. Kennedy came by with a casserole and swollen eyes. She stood on Mom’s porch twisting her wedding ring.
“I should have called sooner,” she said the moment I opened the door. “I kept telling myself maybe I misunderstood. Maybe I was hearing normal parenting frustration. I didn’t want to interfere.”
I stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind me.
“You helped her,” I said.
“Not soon enough.”
I looked at the woman who had lived beside us for six years, who had waved at Gracie on her scooter and brought over tomatoes every summer. She seemed smaller now, burdened by what she had seen through a window.
“Mrs. Kennedy, I missed it too.”
She shook her head. “You were away.”
“I was her father. I should have asked better questions.”
“We all should have.”
That truth settled between us without blame.
Then she opened her purse. “There’s something else.”
I braced myself.
She handed me a small pink envelope.
“Gracie gave this to me three weeks ago. She said it was a pretend letter for my cat. I thought it was sweet. I put it on my refrigerator. Last night, after everything, I read it again.”
My fingers tightened around the envelope.
Inside was a folded sheet of notebook paper covered in Gracie’s uneven handwriting.
Dear Mr. Pickles,
If you hear me crying, please don’t tell. Mommy says crying makes people leave. I try to be quiet. Daddy comes home Friday. I can be good until Friday.
Love,
Gracie