"Is that why you never talked about her?" Grace asked. "Because it hurts too much?"
I pushed the chair back.
"I was trying to protect you."
"Where did you get this?"
"From what?" Grace asked.
"From feeling like second choices."
Emily stepped closer.
"We never felt that."
"You don't understand."
"Then help us understand," Grace said.
"You don't understand."
I looked at Sarah's smile in the photo.
"If I said her name, I was afraid you'd hear what I lost instead of what you gave me."
Emily turned to the last page.
Four names were written there.
Sarah.
Ivy.
Emily.
Grace.
My breath caught.
I looked at Sarah's smile.
"You know about Ivy?"
Grace nodded. "We found her blanket in the cedar box while looking for old lights."
I sat down hard.
For 18 years, I had kept Ivy's name quiet because saying it made the loss real again.
Now, my daughters had written it beside theirs as if it belonged there.
