My Mothre’s Guilt journal Became My Cancellation Notice Chapter 09

My Mothre’s Guilt journal Became My Cancellation Notice Chapter 09

That afternoon, the fabric supplier came as well.

Old accounts covered half the table.

Tessa stared at them until she grew dizzy, then stood beside me holding her mug and muttered, “Ivy, these are a lot easier to look at than the accountability journal.”

The moment she finished speaking, she realized it was inappropriate and immediately closed her mouth.

But I smiled.

“They are easier to look at.”

These ledgers also held losses, trouble, and old debts that still had to be collected.

But everything in them was clear.

How much money was missing, which year it had been withdrawn, and who had signed for it were all written on the page.

Unlike that accountability journal.

It wrote me into one mistake after another, stroke by stroke, but it never once wrote down what had actually happened.

At dusk, Mrs. Carter brought in an old trunk from the front entrance.

“The Sullivan family sent this.”

The moment I saw the old lock on the trunk, I knew what was inside.

Tessa’s expression changed. “Why would they send this again?”

I opened it.

Inside were copies of the remaining pages from the accountability journal.

Not a single page was missing.

On top was a letter from my mother.

She said she had been ill, and at night she kept dreaming of me as a child, standing at the study door with that necklace clutched in my hand, my red eyes fixed on her.

She said that back then, she had only been afraid I would grow up the wrong way, afraid people would take advantage of me after I married.

She said Celeste had been frail, and as a mother, she could not help giving her extra care.

The last line was written with unusual weight.

[Ivy, if you still resent anyone, resent me. Celeste is younger. Don’t hold it against her.]

After I finished reading, I put the letter back into the trunk.

Mrs. Carter looked at me and asked quietly, “Miss Ivy, would you like to write back?”

I shook my head.

Some things were pointless to answer.

Even at the end, my mother still thought I should be more understanding.

She was willing to admit she had favored Celeste, but she still wanted to leave Celeste a clean way forward.

As for my own path, she had stained it one page at a time with her own hand.

I carried the old trunk to the back courtyard.

Tessa brought over the metal fire bowl.

The first page was from when I was six.

The second was from when I gave up my room at eight.

After that came the tutor, the barrette, the gown, and the Graham family’s engagement party.

Every page was written neatly.

Every page carried her handwriting.

When the fire caught, the paper first curled at the edges, then blackened, and finally collapsed into ash.

I burned them slowly.

One page at a time.

Tessa crouched beside me, her tears falling onto the ground.

“Ivy, once they’re burned, it’ll be over.”

I looked at the fire.

“Not that quickly.”

Things written over eighteen years would not be wiped clean in one night.

Even now, whenever I heard words like accountability, consideration, or being the older one, my chest still tightened.

But at least from now on, if someone wrote my name down again, I would first look to see whether it was true.

Late that night, Garrett came.

He did not enter. He only stood under the streetlamp on the old block.

Tessa wanted to step away, but I told her to stay.

Garrett saw the ash in the metal fire bowl in the back courtyard and paused for a moment before handing over what he had brought.

It was a handwritten apology letter from Mrs. Graham.

In the letter, she said that on that day, she had mistakenly believed Evelyn Sullivan’s handwritten records and that breaking off the engagement had damaged my reputation. The Graham family was willing to come in person to apologize and to publicly explain the truth.

I finished reading the letter and folded it.

Garrett said quietly, “My mother would like to come herself.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

I placed the letter on the table.

“If the Graham family is willing to set the record straight, that’s enough.”

He looked at me and did not try to persuade me.

After a moment, he asked, “What about the engagement agreement?”

I looked up.

Garrett did not come closer. He only stood outside the door, his voice steady.

“I’m not rushing you for an answer. I only want to know whether you’d like me to take it back to the Graham family for safekeeping.”

I touched the necklace at my throat.

“Let me keep it here for now.”

Something in his eyes eased slightly.

Then I added, “That doesn’t mean I’m agreeing to the engagement.”

“I know.”

The wind moved down the old block, and the lighted sign at the door swayed gently.

All at once, I remembered how my grandmother had often sat by a shop door like this when I was little.

Back then, I could not understand ledgers, and I wrote slowly. She would place the necklace in my palm and say, “Ivy, there’s no rush. You can learn things slowly, and you can find your way one step at a time. But you have to know your own name.”

I lowered my head and looked at the pendant.

There was a scratch along the edge, but it still hung safely around my neck.

Before Garrett left, he looked at me from a few steps away.

“Ivy Sullivan.”

I raised my eyes.

He did not offer any comforting words. He only said, “You did nothing wrong.”

When those words landed, I did not answer right away.

Only after he had gone and the atelier door had closed again did I lower my head and touch the words engraved on the back of the pendant.

Ivy, safe and sound.

I used to think being safe and sound was something other people gave me.

If my mother did not write in the accountability journal, I was safe.

If my father did not frown, I was safe.

If Celeste did not cry and the house stayed quiet, I was safe.

Later, I learned that was not true.

Being safe was not something to beg for.

Nor was it something earned by giving in.

The next day, the couture atelier reopened.

I sat behind the counter and reviewed the books.

When a customer came in, Mr. Turner instinctively called out, “Ms. Sullivan.”

I looked up and answered.

The title was quiet, but it felt steadier than being called the Sullivan family’s older daughter.

At dusk, Tessa came back from outside and said Celeste had made several scenes after being sent away. My mother had been ill but still wanted to go see her, only to be stopped by my father.

I only hummed in response.

Tessa watched my face and asked carefully, “Ivy, doesn’t it hurt?”

I closed the ledger.

“It hurts.”

She froze.

I reset the adding machine.

“But that doesn’t mean I’m going back.”

Tessa’s eyes reddened again.

I stood and walked to the atelier door.

The sunset fell across the street.

People were buying fabric, haggling over prices, and children were running

past chasing balloons.

It was noisy.

It was alive.

Back at the Sullivan house, noise had been what I feared most.

Whenever there was a stir, I was afraid someone had cried, someone had fallen sick, or someone was about to say I was being inconsiderate again.

Now I stood in the doorway, listening to all that chaotic, living noise, and suddenly felt the place in my chest that had been tight for so many years loosen a little.

Behind me, Mr. Turner asked, “Ms. Sullivan, are we opening as usual tomorrow?”

I looked at the lights gradually brightening along the street.

“Yes.”

After a pause, I added, “And every day after that.”