Chapter 15 - THE NEXT TIME WE WENT TO THE PARKWe took Ada back to the boardwalk in the spring.

Not to recreate the day.

Not to prove bravery.

Because our therapist said healing sometimes looks less like avoidance and more like controlled return with better people.

It was just the three of us.

Philip bought the tickets himself at the gate even though I had already ordered them online. He smiled a little when the cashier handed over the wristbands, as if he knew exactly how absurd and necessary that gesture was.

Ada wore the purple backpack again.

The blue transit card stayed at home in my dresser drawer.

She held my hand all the way to the carousel, then let go on her own and ran ahead to point at the painted horses.

Halfway through the afternoon, while she and Philip were choosing between lemon ice and soft-serve, I looked out toward the parking lane where the family SUV had once pulled forward without her.

The image still lived in me.

Maybe it always would.

But it no longer owned the whole place.

Later, on the ride home, Ada fell asleep in the back seat with sugar on her chin and a cheap plush dolphin in her lap.

When we got home, there was one envelope in the mailbox.

Peter’s handwriting.

I set it on the kitchen counter and left it unopened through dinner.

Philip noticed.

“You don’t have to open it tonight.”

“I know.”

After Ada was asleep, I slit it carefully with a butter knife.

Inside was a short note and a photograph.

The note said only:

I know I may never earn another chance. I wanted you to have this before I lose the nerve.

The photograph was from the cottage five summers earlier.

Ada, tiny and missing both front teeth, standing on the beach between Peter and Philip with a bucket of shells in her hand.

On the back, in Peter’s careful print, were four words:

She was always mine too.

I stood in the kitchen for a long time holding that photograph.

I still did not know whether Peter would ever be part of Ada’s life again.

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That was the one question the year had not answered.

I put the photo back in the envelope, turned off the kitchen light, and went upstairs to check on my daughter—who was home, asleep, and no longer waiting for anyone to come back for her.