“These were delivered for you,” the nurse said.
My whole body tensed.
After everything with Eileen, my mind went to dark places fast.
I pulled Ivy a little closer against my chest and stared at the balloons. They floated there quietly, glossy and black against the pale hospital walls.
I think the nurse saw my face because she added, “Do you want me to take them away?”
I almost said yes. Then I noticed something.
The ribbon tied to the box was dark blue, not black.
And suddenly I heard Steve’s voice in my head from a hundred random moments over the years.
“People always act like black is sad. Black is classy.”
“Black goes with everything.”
“If we have a daughter, I am buying her tiny black baby shoes.”
It had been his favorite color since I knew him.
My throat tightened.
“No,” I said quietly. “It’s okay.”
The nurse set everything on the little tray table and left.
I stared at the box for a long time.
Then I laid Ivy carefully in the bassinet, picked up the envelope, and opened it.
“Shirley,”
“If you’re reading this, then two things are true.”
“First, I am so sorry I am not there.”
“Second, our daughter made it here safely, and that means you did too.”
“Good. I was counting on you.”
My vision blurred so fast I had to stop.
I knew Steve’s handwriting immediately. Messy but somehow confident, like the letters were in a hurry to get wherever they were going.
I sank back against the pillows and kept reading.
“Black balloons because you know I would never send pastel anything to our daughter on principle.”
“Also, because I wanted you to laugh at least once before you cried.”
Too late, I thought, already sobbing.
There was more.
“Inside the box is everything I could think of that might help me still show up, even when I am gone.”
I put the letter down with shaking hands and opened the box.
The first thing I saw was a tiny pair of black baby shoes.
I made this horrible, broken sound and clapped a hand over my mouth.
Under the shoes was a photo of Steve standing in the half-painted nursery, holding up a stuffed giraffe with a solemn expression like he was giving a press conference. On the back, he had written: “For Ivy’s room. Tell her I had excellent taste.”
Beneath that was a flash drive labeled:
FOR IVY – BIRTHDAY VIDEOS: ONE THROUGH 20
I just stared at it.
Then I pulled out a stack of envelopes, each marked in Steve’s handwriting.
For Ivy at 1. For Ivy at 5. For Ivy at 10. For Ivy at 16. For Ivy at 20. Every single year until she turned 20.
At the bottom of the box was a folder.
Inside were life insurance documents, investment papers, and a letter from his lawyer explaining that Steve had changed everything as soon as he understood how sick he was. The house, the savings, the policies, all of it had been secured in my name and in a trust for Ivy.
