I picture the messages Ivy and I wrote inside our closet doors, and what the people who move in will make of them. Ivy wrote, Ivy lived here. Please take care of this room. And don’t be afraid of Mrs. Potter. I wrote my name, the dates we lived here, and This is a special house.

I realize now that Ivy’s silly pillow is right. Without us, without all the things that make us a family, this place really is just a house. I think there will always be traces of our hearts here, like our sad notes inside our closet doors, but home is what the four of us are together, wherever we go.

“Ready?” my dad asks quietly.

“Ready,” I say. We climb into the van and slowly roll out of the driveway for the last time.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Back at the apartment, my dad and I take several trips to bring up all the vegetable bags. My mom and Ivy have managed to unpack a lot more boxes, and the apartment is starting to feel less empty and a little more homey.

When my mom peeks in one of the bags and sees the carrots, she sighs but doesn’t say anything.

Ivy grabs one and cleans it in the sink, then takes a bite. “Is this how they make baby carrots?” she asks.

I roll my eyes.

“Rachel, be nice,” my mom says.

My dad tousles Ivy’s hair, then reaches for a black trash bag I saw him carry up. I don’t remember putting anything in a plastic bag.

My mom opens it and pulls out several bittersweet vines my dad must have cut for her while I was at the Townsends’. My mom puts her hand to her mouth.

“Don’t cry,” my dad says. “These are to cheer you up. I thought Ivy could help you make a wreath.”

Ivy comes bounding over to grab them from my mom.

“Careful, you’ll knock the berries off before they can even open,” my mom says.

Ivy calms down and touches the vine. “I want to make it myself,” she says.

“All right.” My mom helps her pull the rest of the vines from the bag and lay them out on the counter.

My dad and I leave them and go back to the van.

We untie the Bittersweet Farm sign from the roof and carry it up the four flights of stairs. It’s hard to navigate through the narrow stairwell, and then through the door of the apartment.

My mom’s mouth drops when she sees what we have. At first I think she is about to start yelling at my dad. Or crying. But instead she starts to laugh.

“What on earth do you think we’re going to do with that old thing?” my mom asks.

George pops out of an open box and mews, then comes over to circle my legs.