The days that followed were hard. Eleanor tried to cling to the house, but her influence waned. Lily began to say more words—first “mom” and then “aunt.” Each new syllable was a small victory, proof that the child could speak when she felt safe.
But Mary stayed out of sight. Mike called, visited, and asked around. The answer was always: “She left.”
Then one evening a letter arrived. The handwriting matched the one in Lily’s notebook. The envelope had only his name.
“Mr. Anderson. I had to go. I couldn’t stay with Eleanor in the house. Don’t think I am against you. I am Lily’s aunt. I promised my sister I wouldn’t leave her child alone. I’ll stay in the background until it’s safe. If you can make sure Eleanor is gone, I’ll come back.”
Mike read it over and over. Tears came to his eyes. It was the truth.
The next day he had the divorce papers ready. Eleanor signed them under the weight of a scandal she couldn’t control and left that night, throwing a last, angry line over her shoulder:
— You’ll regret this.
Her voice lacked conviction.
Weeks passed. Snow melted and early spring arrived. Lily was saying “daddy” and “aunt” more often. Her drawings brightened: sun, trees, smiling figures. Mike felt it was time to bring Mary home. He sent a short note:
