I picked up a gold medal from the very top.

It was heavier than the others. On a wide blue ribbon. Engraved on the back: National Ballroom Championship. First Place. Margaret Ellen Burke.

“Daniel,” I said. “Look.”

He came around the table and stood behind me. He put his hand on my shoulder.

He smiled. A sad smile.

“Your first national championship,” he said. “Las Vegas. The red dress.”

“I can’t believe you remember the dress.”

“I remember everything about that night,” he said. “That was the night I knew I was going to marry you.”

Ivy nodded.

“I used to watch you polish those,” she said. “Remember? On Sunday afternoons. You’d take the box down and sit at this table with a rag and some silver polish and polish every single one.”

I looked at her.

“You remember that?”

“You told me every medal had a story,” she said.

I laughed through my tears.

“And you asked me,” I said, “whether the bronze ones meant I was terrible.”

“You said they meant you’d been brave enough to compete,” Ivy said. “You said the gold ones were for being the best that day. But the bronze ones were for being brave enough to try in the first place. And brave was more important.”

She touched one of the bronze medals in the box.

“I thought about that a lot,” she said. “Growing up.”

I looked at her across the table.

“But why take these, sweetheart?” I said. “You could have taken anything. Why my medals?”

“Because they mattered to you,” she said.

“But why not take something of yours? Something of your own? To remember us by?”

Ivy looked down at the box. She ran her finger along the edge of it.

“Because I thought,” she said slowly, “that if I took something you really loved, then maybe you’d come looking for me.”

The kitchen was very quiet.

“I never imagined you’d taken it,” I whispered.

“I thought you’d notice right away,” Ivy said. “I thought you’d go to the shelf the next day and see it was gone and know it was me. And then you’d call. Or come to Indiana. Or write to me.” She swallowed. “I used to wait by the mailbox. Every day after school. For a whole year. Waiting for a letter from you that said, Ivy, where’s my box?”

“Ivy,” I said. “After you left, I could barely look at anything that reminded me of dancing. I didn’t open that cabinet. I didn’t go down that hallway. I didn’t even notice the box was gone for three years.”

She lowered her eyes.

“And when you didn’t come,” she said quietly, “I thought maybe you didn’t care about the box. Or me. And I promised myself that when I grew up, I’d find you. I’d bring it back myself.”

“But why wait eighteen years?” I said. “Sweetheart. Why so long?”

She looked down at her coffee.

“When I was little, my aunt wouldn’t let me contact you,” she said. “She said it would confuse me. That I had to let go of the old family and focus on the real one. She took your letters. I found them years later, when she was moving to Arizona. In a shoebox in her closet. Six of them. She’d never even opened them.”

I put my hand over my mouth.

“And then we moved,” Ivy said. “So many times. I lost your address. I was twelve. I didn’t know how to find people. I didn’t even remember the name of your street. Just the yellow room. And the kitchen.”

“But you could have found us when you got older,” Daniel said gently. “When you were grown.”

Ivy nodded slowly.

“I know,” she said. “I did. I found your address almost a year ago.”

“A year?” I said.

She nodded.

“I found it on the internet. Property records. I drove here. Eleven months ago. I parked across the street. I sat in my car for two hours. I saw Daniel come out to get the mail. I saw you through the kitchen window, Margaret. Washing dishes. Just like today.”

She wiped her eyes.

“And I couldn’t do it,” she said. “I couldn’t get out of the car. I drove home. I came back four more times. I never got out of the car.”

“Why not?” I whispered.

“Because I was afraid you’d forgotten me,” she said. “Or that you’d be angry. That you’d never forgive me. For taking the medals.”

“So what changed?” I said. “Why today?”

She was quiet for a long moment.

“Last Sunday,” she said, “I was sitting in my car across the street again. For the sixth time. And I looked at myself in the rearview mirror. And I realized I was still that scared little girl. Sitting on the floor next to a duffel bag. Waiting for somebody else to come and make the first move.”

She looked up at me.

“And I didn’t want to be her anymore,” she said.

“Ivy,” I said. “We never stopped thinking about you. Not once. Not one single day.”

Daniel reached across the table and put his big hand over both of ours.

“Not once,” he said.