I’d remembered those words for years.

I’d simply forgotten his surname.

Mr. Harris covered his mouth.

“My father knew where she was.”

“Yes.”

“He never told me.”

The hurt in his voice was unmistakable.

Then he looked at Sophie, and his expression softened.

“I knew you survived,” he told her. “Dad told me you were safe and that a family was taking care of you. I wanted to find you.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“He asked me not to.”

Sophie frowned.

“Why?”

Mr. Harris paused.

“He said you’d already lost your mom and dad. He didn’t want strangers appearing and frightening the people taking care of you. He told me that when you were older, there would be time.”

He smiled sadly.

“I suppose he thought we had more of it.”

Richard died three years later.

Mr. Harris had known Sophie existed as a baby, but never learned the name she’d been given after her adoption or where Richard had found her new family.

And I’d never known the quiet older man on our porch had a son who would eventually become principal of Sophie’s elementary school.

Sophie tugged my sleeve.

“Mom?”

I looked down.

“Is the box still there?”

My stomach tightened.

“Yes.”

“Can I see it?”

I knew she meant everything inside, not just the clipping.

I’d shown Sophie the box before and let her see a few photographs, but I’d never allowed her to go through it herself.

I kept telling myself I was waiting until she was old enough to ask.

The truth was, she’d been asking for years.

Did my first mommy have brown eyes?

Did she like swimming?

Was my first daddy funny?

I’d answered whatever I could.

I’d simply decided those questions didn’t count.

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.”

He stared at the paper.

“The last thing I said to her was, ‘Fine. Go.’”

He looked toward the window.

“I waited for her to call me.”

I looked at the unopened envelopes.

“And she thought you didn’t want her to.”

Mr. Harris nodded.

The remaining letters covered years.

Isabella wrote about getting married, missing home, and wondering whether Mr. Harris had graduated.

Then came one written after Sophie was born.

Mr. Harris unfolded it with shaking hands.

A small photograph slipped onto the floor.

Sophie picked it up.