For three years, this woman had watched my daughter grow up, checking out her books, smiling at her, observing her mannerisms. “It was a closed adoption,” I hissed, leaning closer. “You signed the papers. You agreed to stay away.

How did you even find us?” “I didn’t mean to,” she sobbed quietly, wiping her face with the back of her sleeve.

“I swear to you, I didn’t track you down. I moved to this town five years ago for a fresh start. And then… three years ago, she walked in to get her first library card. I saw her name on the application. Ivy. Her birthdate.

And then I saw her face. I knew immediately. It was a complete accident. A fluke.” “So you decided to stalk her?” I asked, my anger flaring hot. “You decided to leave creepy letters hidden in books for an eleven-year-old to find?” “I never meant for her to find them!” she pleaded, looking around frantically to make sure no one was listening.

“The letters… I hide them in the books she reads, and then I retrieve them before they go back into circulation. It’s a journal. It’s my way of talking to her without actually talking to her. I missed this one. ‘Charlotte’s Web’ got checked out before I could go back to the stacks.

I am so, so sorry.” “Thirty-seven letters,” I said coldly. “Where are the rest of them?” “At my house in a shoebox,” she wept. “I swear on my life, I have never approached her. I have never spoken to her outside of asking if she needs help finding a book.

I just… I just wanted to watch her grow up. She’s so beautiful. She’s so smart.” I took a deep breath, trying to steady the shaking in my own hands. “And what about the father? You wrote that he sits in the corner chair on Tuesdays.

Who is he?” The woman closed her eyes, a look of profound shame washing over her. “His name is Thomas. He’s a local history professor. He comes in every Tuesday afternoon to read the archives.” “Does he know about Ivy?” I asked. “No,” she shook her head vehemently.

“We had a brief relationship in college. When I got pregnant, I ran. I dropped out, moved away, and gave her up. He has a whole family now. A wife, two teenage sons. He comes in here every Tuesday, and he sits in the same chair Ivy likes.

They’ve sat in the same room before. They bite their thumbnails exactly the same way. He has absolutely no idea she is his daughter, and neither does she.” The sheer weight of her secret felt heavy enough to crush us both. This woman had built an entire agonizing existence around watching the child she gave away and the man she ran from, silently observing them in a public library, never speaking a word to either of them.