An eleven-year-old boy walked into a bakery with seven dollars and an old photo. An elderly stranger glanced at the picture and instantly turned pale.

The dough stuck to Lily’s fingers.

Arthur showed her how to dust them with flour. She covered the table, her apron, and one side of his face instead.

Mrs. Carter laughed. I did too.

Then the doorbell rang.

Arthur wiped his hands and went to answer. Ms. Lewis stood on the porch holding a folder.

“I wanted to speak with you about next week,” she said.

My stomach tightened. Adults carried folders whenever they might change our lives.

She sat with us at the kitchen table while Lily’s dough rested under a towel.

Arthur had completed the checks needed for us to stay at his house while the longer arrangements were considered. Ms. Lewis wanted to make sure Lily and I understood what that meant.

“We would both go?” I asked.

“Together.”

“Can we still see Mrs. Carter?”

“As often as everyone can arrange.”

Mrs. Carter reached across the table and squeezed my hand. Lily asked whether her toys could come too. Ms. Lewis said yes.

I wanted to be happy. I was, partly. But leaving our apartment felt like leaving the last place Dad had taken us home to.

“We don’t have to throw anything away,” Arthur said. “We can decide what to move a little at a time.”

I nodded.

That night, I went through Dad’s dresser with Mrs. Carter. I chose his sweatshirt, a watch that no longer worked, and the notebook where he wrote reminders for us. Lily chose the bear he had given her when she was sick.

I found a sealed envelope beneath a stack of shirts.

Arthur’s name was on the front.

I did not open it. I gave it to him the next morning when he came to help move our bags.

He sat in Mrs. Carter’s kitchen and read it while I watched.

Dad had written the letter shortly before he went to the hospital. He said he had recently found an old copy of the corrected bakery deposit. He knew Vanessa had made the entry. He wanted to ask Arthur why no one had told him.

Arthur stopped reading and looked at me.

“Do you want to hear the rest?”

“Yes.”

Dad wrote that he had two children. He said I loved taking broken things apart and Lily asked for a bedtime story twice every night. He did not know whether Arthur would answer, but he wanted us to have family if he got too sick to care for us.

At the end, he wrote that he had loved Arthur even when he was angry with him.

Arthur read that line twice.

“He never sent it,” I said.

“He left it for us to find.”

I wondered how long Dad had known he was sick. I had thought he put the photograph in his coat because he looked at it often. Perhaps he wanted me to find the address when I needed it.

Arthur folded the letter carefully.

“I’m going to spend the rest of my life answering him by taking care of you and Lily,” he said.

I did not know whether he could promise the rest of his life. I knew he meant it that morning.

We moved our bags to his house. I kept the photograph with me.

Vanessa called Mrs. Carter that afternoon. She had heard about the move and wanted to speak to me. Mrs. Carter said she could put anything important in writing for Ms. Brooks or Ms. Lewis.

Vanessa hung up.

Two days later, Ms. Brooks called with news about Dad’s payment. The records did not support Vanessa’s claim that she had spent it all on expenses. She had moved a substantial amount into her own account.

“She says she borrowed it,” Ms. Brooks told Arthur. “The people reviewing it will decide what follows. Our immediate work is making sure the children’s money is protected.”

I listened from the doorway.

Dad had worked while he was ill. I remembered him leaving before sunrise with a cup of coffee he could barely finish. The thought of Vanessa spending money he meant for us made my hands shake.

Arthur saw me.

“You can be angry,” he said.

“I am.”

“So am I.”

I was glad he did not tell me to be patient.

The next morning, Lily and I walked to the bakery with him. Ruth gave us jobs folding paper bags. For an hour I could concentrate on making sharp corners and stacking the bags evenly.

Then Vanessa entered.

She stopped when she saw us behind the counter.

“I need to speak to Arthur,” she said.

Ruth put herself between Vanessa and the worktable.

“Then speak from there.”

Vanessa held up her phone.

“I’ve spoken to a lawyer. Arthur can’t keep these children just because he feels guilty.”

I looked at Arthur.