Part 4 — My family did not accept my child as a guest on Thanksgiving, but still came to the wedding — my mother’s smile disappeared then

Everyone was holding their breath, but I already knew that there was no going back.

The unfamiliar man bowed his head to me.

“I am Daniel Morel, the wedding security coordinator. The police investigator asked me to deliver this folder to you personally.”

My mother immediately looked toward Father.

“Did you call them?”

“I did not call anyone,” Father said.

“Then why do they know about this document?”

Alison tried to stand up from her chair.

“This is a family matter. The police have nothing to do here.”

Daniel answered calmly:

“When it concerns forging a child’s guardianship and threats, it is no longer a family matter.”

Mother took a step toward me.

“Sarah, you can stop everything. Just tell them it was a misunderstanding.”

“You have been telling me for a whole year that everything was a misunderstanding.”

“Do you want to destroy us?”

“No. I simply no longer want to be saved from your decisions.”

Father opened his bag and took out his phone.

“Let us go outside and talk.”

“No.”

“Is it necessary to do this in front of everyone here?”

“You came to my wedding uninvited. I did not bring you here.”

Daniel handed the second folder to Nino. Nino looked through the papers, then turned toward me.

“This is correspondence between your mother and Alison. They knew that the old document was no longer valid, but still used copies of it to pressure you. Here is a threat that they would call Ivy’s school and say that you were unable to care for the child.”

A whisper ran through the hall.

Alison shook her head.

“We only wanted to frighten you.”

“A person you frighten is not called your family,” Julia said.

This was the first time Julia had answered them directly.

Mother took the microphone again.

“Sarah, you misunderstood us. Ivy is a difficult child. We only wanted to protect her.”

At these words Ivy hid behind Barbara. She clutched the old red stitch on the fox’s ear in her hand.

I knelt in front of her.

“Shall we go outside?”

“Will you come too?”

“I will be with you the whole time.”

We moved a few steps to the side, but I could still hear my mother’s voice from the hall.

“Sarah always exaggerated everything. She was like this since childhood. She needed attention.”

Those words were painfully familiar.

Daniel started the recording. An old video appeared on the large screen in the hall. I was sitting in an office, pregnant and tired. Mother was changing the papers.

“Sign,” she was saying. “We are trying to help you.”

Then my father’s voice sounded:

“If she dies, the child will stay with us.”

Mother immediately said:

“The camera is working.”

Everyone heard their own words with their own ears.

Father lowered his head.

Mother looked at the screen as if it showed not her face, but the face of a stranger.

“Turn it off!” she shouted.

“You said it yourselves,” Nino replied. “Now you are simply hearing it.”

Father sat down on a chair. His hands were trembling.

“Sarah, I did not know that your mother was changing the pages.”

Mother turned toward him.

“Do not you dare!”

“I thought it was simply financial assistance.”

“You were there.”

“I also trusted your words.”

Their argument was happening in front of me, but for the first time I no longer wanted to reconcile anyone.

The police arrived several minutes later.

My mother made one last attempt with me.

“If you do not sign the complaint now, we will forget everything. Just let us go.”

“I am not stopping you.”

“You are my daughter.”

“And Ivy is my daughter. That is exactly why I am ending this cycle.”

The investigator spoke with them separately. Alison cried and said that Mother had only been trying to help. Mother repeated that all the recordings had been cut.

Nino said calmly:

“Mrs. Hayes, before you continue your statement, I advise you to wait for a lawyer.”

Mother picked up her phone and called her lawyer.

“You have to get me out of here.”

As she listened to the answer, her face changed.

“Of course, you can come,” the lawyer said, “but at this stage I cannot remain your representative. You hid the camera recording from me.”

Mother slowly lowered the phone.

The last spark of her control went out.

Father tried to come to me, but Daniel blocked his way.

“Not now.”

“I only need one minute.”

“Mrs. Hayes does not consent to speaking with you.”

For the first time Father looked into my eyes.

“Sarah, did you really believe that we would take Ivy away from you?”

“I believed what was written in the document. You wrote it.”

He fell silent.

Then the police led them out of the hall.

The music was no longer playing. The smell of burnt candles mixed with the scent of roses. Several guests stood awkwardly, as if they too were being required to choose.

Luka came to me.

“Do you want us to cancel the ceremony?”

I looked at Ivy. She was holding on to Barbara’s hand.

“No. I have waited all my life for the day when someone else’s behavior would no longer determine my happiness.”

Luka held out his hand.

“Then let us start again.”

We continued the ceremony.

Walter took my hand again and led me to the altar. On the way I passed my mother’s empty chair. Only a small white program lay on the chair, its corner bent.

I did not pick it up.

That day I heard my own voice clearly for the first time, just as their voices had sounded in the video.

“I choose the family that leaves room for my child.”

I looked at Luka.

“And I choose a life in which I do not need to earn love.”

Several weeks later the investigation continued. My mother and father were charged with attempting to forge documents and with threats. Alison made an agreement and admitted that she had sent the messages herself. I did not go to every hearing.

For me, the main thing had already been decided.

Ivy’s protection was no longer in the hands of anyone who wanted to hide her.

Only her favorite things remained in the room: the blanket with yellow stars, the colored pencils given by Mia, and the little soft fox whose ear still showed the red stitch.

One morning I entered the empty childhood room. An old photograph hung on the wall — me, Alison, and my parents. I took the photograph down, but did not throw it away immediately.

Ivy asked from the doorway:

“Whose room will this be now?”

“Yours, if you want.”

“Will Mia sleep here too?”

“Of course.”

“Then it will be my home.”

“Yes, sweetheart.”

Several months passed.

I began working in a small library in the city center. In the mornings I opened the windows, wiped dust from the books, and arranged soft cushions in the fairy-tale corner for children.

Ivy came to me from school. She threw her bag on the floor and first checked the refrigerator — whether her new drawing was attached in Barbara’s house.

On Sundays we all had dinner together. Walter still asked Ivy’s opinion about everything. Mia put out her chair in advance. Julia sometimes stayed with me and said that sharing a common blood surname was not necessary for being a family member.

Luka made tea in the evenings. He always added two spoonfuls of honey, although he knew I drank only one.

“You need the second spoonful today,” he would tell me.

“Why today?”

“Because today you smiled peacefully.”

The first snow came at the end of November. Ivy drew a little house on the window with her finger. Four people stood in front of the house, and a fox stood beside them.

“Who lives here?” I asked.

“Me, you, Luka, and Barbara’s family.”

“Why is the fox so big?”

“Because it was the first to know that everything would be all right.”

That same evening I received a letter from my mother. The envelope was plain, and my name was written on it by hand. There were only three sentences in the letter.

“I miss you. The trial will end soon. If you want, let us meet alone at least once.”

I looked at the paper for a long time.

Then Luka asked me:

“Will you write back?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

I wrote:

“I am no longer fighting you. But I am also not going to return you to my life. Ivy is safe, and I am at peace. Please let this be enough.”

I sent the letter and placed the phone on the table.

I did not cry.

Nor did I feel relief.

I simply knew for the first time that I no longer needed someone else’s answer.

That night Ivy came to my bed and handed me the little fox.

“Can you keep it?”

“Why today?”

“Because I have to go to school tomorrow and I do not want you to be alone.”

I laughed.

“I will not be alone.”

I went to the window. Snow was slowly covering the yard. I held the soft fox in my hands, and the old red stitch could be seen on its ear — the stitch that once absorbed Ivy’s tears in the back seat.

Now it was no longer a sign of our pain.

It was proof that sometimes family loses you on the road, but love still finds you.

I placed the fox on the windowsill.

Four shadows of our house could be seen in the snow.

This time the door was open to everyone.