“I’m going to need you to bring me those thirty-six letters,” I told her, my voice brooking no argument. “Today. On your lunch break. We will meet at the coffee shop across the street.” “Okay,” she whispered, nodding frantically. “I will.

I promise.” “And then,” I continued, staring hard into her terrified eyes, “you are going to quit this job.

If I ever see you near my daughter again, if you ever leave another note, I will go to the police. I will go to the adoption agency. I will completely destroy your life. Do you understand me?” She nodded again, a fresh wave of tears falling.

“I understand. I’m sorry. I just loved her so much.” “I love her,” I corrected fiercely. “I am her mother. You are a stranger who needs to move on.” I turned on my heel and walked out of the library, the crisp morning air hitting my face like a physical blow.

True to her word, she met me at the coffee shop three hours later. She handed over a worn Nike shoebox filled with thirty-six folded pieces of paper. I didn’t open them. I didn’t want to read the agonizing details of her regret. We transferred Ivy to a different library branch across town the very next week.

I told her the selection was better. She never asked about the note again, assuming it was exactly what I told her it was: a weird coincidence, a creative writing project left behind by a strange teenager. But sometimes, on a Tuesday afternoon, I think about that history professor sitting in a quiet corner of the Maple Street Library, completely unaware of the ghosts that used to haunt the aisles around him.

And I take the shoebox from the top shelf of my closet, look at it, and ensure the lid is still tightly shut, keeping our family’s secrets exactly where they belong: in the dark.