Ivy is small in that image. Barely two. Her cheeks are round, her curls shorter, and her hands grip the grass like she had only just discovered it. Clara sits beside her, her body angled toward Ivy, and her expression open in a way that feels distant now, though I remember it clearly.
Maggie studies the photograph before she turns her head toward me. “Is that Ivy’s mother?”
“Yes. Her name was Clara.”
She looks back at the image, her attention lingering with a gentle respect that doesn’t intrude. She doesn’t read into it or ask for more, and that alone impresses me.
“She’s beautiful,” Maggie says, her eyes on me.
“Yes.”
I keep my focus on her instead of the photograph. Her breathing speeds up.
I step closer, closing the distance between us. I don’t touch her, but I feel the warmth of her skin and notice the faint trace of her perfume. Her shoulders lift slightly, not pulling away, just aware of how close I am.
“She had a way of making people feel seen,” I add. “Even when they didn’t want it.”
Maggie’s attention focuses on the photograph again, then returns to me.
“What happened to her?” she asks gently.
I hold her eyes. “She died when Ivy was two. It was an accident,” I say, my jaw subtly clenching. “Wrong place. Wrong time.”
Maggie watches me, her expression softening. “I’m sorry.”
I nod once, glancing at the photograph before looking back at her. I say nothing more, and she doesn’t push for more details.
That choice doesn’t go unnoticed.
“How did you meet her?” she asks after a moment.
I look at the photograph again before answering. “It was in New York. At an event I had no interest in attending.”
That earns a small smile from her, one that lifts at the corner. “That sounds about right.”
“She came over anyway,” I add. “Didn’t ask who I was. Didn’t care.”
Something in Maggie’s expression changes, her interest pulling her deeper. “Most people do.”
“She said I looked like I was planning an exit,” I continue. “And then made sure I didn’t.”
Maggie lets out a low breath, almost a laugh. “I think I’d have gotten along with her just fine.”
She steps away from the table, her fingers brushing along the back of the sofa as she moves.
“Does Ivy remember her at all?” she asks gently.
“No. She was too young.”
The words come out more easily than before. Time sands down the edges without completely removing them.
“She knows who Clara is. She’s seen pictures and heard stories.” I focus on Maggie. “But memories? No.”
Maggie nods slowly, like she’s thinking about Ivy more than the answer itself.
“That’s probably a mercy in some ways,” she says quietly. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it.”
I don’t answer. Instead, I watch how she looks at the photograph again, not curious in the wrong way, or digging for details she hasn’t earned. Her attention stays on Ivy.
