Dad placed his arm over my shoulder. “I brought that box of stories you asked me about. I found them in the attic next to the Christmas decorations. I looked everywhere for them.” He tapped a blue plastic bin I hadn’t noticed sitting on my counter. “Your mother kept everything you ever wrote. Did you know that?”

I nodded. “I did. I just couldn’t find it.”

“This one is labeled ‘Ellie’s Stories.’ You know your mother; she labeled and organized everything from her clothes to her photos. I’m surprised she didn’t box and label my underwear.” He laughed and shook his head. “Anyway, it’s right here for you. I’m gonna head over to the hardware store and pick up some tools I need to fix your back fence. I see it separating in the far right corner. I’ll be back in a few.”

I hugged him. “Thanks, Dad.”

I wandered out to the back patio and sifted through the box of stories and drawings from my childhood and then lifted my face to the sun, knowing that this was the day I would leave Rusty Calvin. If fear and calm can live together in harmony, they did for that moment.

The screen door slammed and I spun around, expecting Rusty and finding Uncle Cotton. I jumped up, hugging him. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I was planning on visiting your dad anyway, and when he called last night and told me about your accident, I figured now was as good a time as any.”

I took his hand and squeezed it. “Thank you so much, but really … it wasn’t my accident.”

He nodded. “I know. Your dad just called me.”

“Sit,” I said, pointing to the other chair. We faced the yard and the morning. “Rough night?” he asked.

“The worst.”

Uncle Cotton pointed to the box. “What’s this?”

“Childhood drawings and writings.” I lifted the top and leafed through the stories, laughing at my crooked handwriting and awful sketches. I held one up to Cotton. “My masterpiece. It’s called ‘My Life.’ I wrote it when I was ten years old. I guess I thought my life was worthy of a full story by that time.”

He took it from me. “So sweet.”

I then found “The New Cinderella” and unfolded the page. “This one had a sketch, too, and Mother kept the picture in her journal. I have no idea why—but this is the story that went with it.”

“Read it,” he said.

“No way. I’m not reading my nine-year-old handwritten story to a novelist.”

“Please,” he said. “I’m always the one reading and never being read to.” He smiled at me and I couldn’t resist.