I thought I was protecting her from grief she was too young to understand.
Maybe I’d really been protecting myself from a conversation I didn’t know how to have.
“We’ll look tonight,” I said.
Sophie hesitated.
“All of it?”
“All of it.”
Mrs. Parker finally spoke.
“I didn’t realize what the clipping was.”
Sophie looked at her.
Mrs. Parker’s face reddened.
“I saw the article about the accident and thought it wasn’t appropriate to display something about two people dying beside the other children’s family photographs.”
Sophie frowned.
“But it’s not a picture of them dying.”
“No.”
“It’s a picture of my mom and dad.”
Mrs. Parker looked down.
“You’re right.”
That evening, my husband sat beside Sophie on our bedroom floor while I took down the box.
Sophie recognized it immediately.
“So that’s where you got the clipping,” I said.
She nodded.
“You climbed up there?”
Another nod.
My husband gave her a look.
“We’ll discuss the climbing later.”
For the first time all day, Sophie smiled.
Then I opened the box.
There were fewer things than I remembered.
Three photographs.
A hospital bracelet with Sophie’s birth name.
A tiny knitted hat.
Several envelopes tied with a faded blue ribbon.
And one photograph I’d completely forgotten.
Richard sat in an armchair, younger than I remembered him, holding a baby wrapped in a yellow blanket.
Sophie.
On the back, written in blue ink:
“Sophie. My granddaughter. Three weeks old.”
Mr. Harris came over after I called him.
I handed him the photograph.
He stared at it for a long time.
Then he noticed the envelopes.
“What are those?”
“I don’t know.”
I’d never opened them.
He untied the faded blue ribbon.
Every envelope had the same name written across the front.
Mr. Harris.
He looked at me.
“That’s me.”
There were six letters in Isabella’s handwriting.
None had stamps.
None had ever been mailed.
Mr. Harris opened the first.
Sophie leaned against me as he read silently.
Halfway down the page, he stopped.
“What does it say?” I asked.
He swallowed.
“She wrote it after she left.”
His eyes returned to the page.
Then he read one line aloud.
“I don’t know if you still hate me.”
Mr. Harris lowered the letter.
“I didn’t hate her.”
Nobody spoke.
“I was 16,” he continued. “She and Dad had this terrible argument. She packed a bag. I was angry because she was leaving.”
