She considered the answer.
Then asked, “Does that mean Kelly can still help with my moon greenhouse?”
Kelly smiled.
“Absolutely.”
Ava nodded.
“Okay.”
She started toward the stairs.
Then stopped.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you happy?”
The question surprised me.
I looked toward Kelly.
Then back at my daughter.
“Yes.”
Ava smiled.
“Good.”
She thought for another moment.
“Mommy would want you to be happy.”
My eyes filled.
Then she continued.
“Can you both help me find the purple markers?”
I laughed through tears.
“Of course.”
And just like that, the conversation ended.
Not because the feelings were small.
But because children sometimes know when love doesn't need a complicated explanation.
The following December, nearly a year after I discovered Kelly in my attic, we decorated the room for Christmas.
Ava had insisted that the attic needed a winter constellation.
Kelly brought white flowers, paper lanterns, and silver ribbon.
I carried boxes.
Apparently, that was my main contribution.
Ava directed everybody like the chief executive of a very demanding company.
“Daddy, the stars go higher!”
I climbed the ladder.
“Higher?”
“Yes!”
“There's a roof up here, Ava.”
She sighed.
“Then make the roof taller.”
Kelly burst out laughing.
I looked down.
“Don't encourage her.”
She smiled.
“I'm sorry. She's very persuasive.”
We worked until late afternoon.
Then Ava went downstairs with my sister to prepare hot chocolate.
For a moment, Kelly and I were alone in the attic.
The same room where I'd found her nearly a year earlier.
The mattress remained beneath the sloping roof.
The cream rug covered the floor.
And paper stars hung above us.
Kelly sat on the edge of the bed.
I stood beside the window.
Snow was falling outside.
She looked around.
Then smiled softly.
“It's strange.”
I turned.
“What is?”
“That this room used to be where I went because I was frightened.”
I approached.
She continued.
“And now it's one of my favorite places.”
I sat beside her.
For a while, we watched the snow.
Then she looked toward the little shelf near the mattress.
On it rested a small wooden frame.
Inside was Ava's silver bracelet.
The tiny blue enamel horse had been cleaned and carefully secured.
Beside it was a photograph of Hannah holding Ava on her fifth birthday.
Kelly studied the frame.
For a long moment, she didn't speak.
Then she whispered, “Sometimes I still can't remember everything about that night.”