Grace settled into our home as if she had been waiting for us all along. That night, she curled up at Lucy’s feet, and for the first time in months, my daughter fell asleep without needing me to hum her into dreams.
And for the first time in months, I didn’t cry myself to sleep.
Grace didn’t erase the grief. But she filled the silence. And she brought movement, warmth, and soft noise back into our quiet spaces.
She waited at the door when I returned from work and stood beside Lucy at the breakfast table like she’d always belonged there.
Two months passed. My Christmas bonus went to paying off some of our debt, allowing Lucy and me to breathe into the new year.
Then, one cold February morning, I opened the mailbox and found a plain white envelope tucked between a gas bill and a pizza coupon. There was no stamp, no return address, just careful, slanted handwriting across the back that read:
“From an old friend.”
I stood there for a moment, the cold chilling my skin, staring at the envelope like it might vanish if I blinked. My breath caught in my throat. Something about it felt… deliberate.
Grace barked from the porch.
“Coming, sweet girl,” I called to her.
