On the left was the beach photograph she’d originally chosen.
Sophie sat between my husband and me, all three of us sunburned and laughing.
On the right was the newspaper photograph of Isabella and Sophie’s biological father.
Below it was the picture of Richard holding her as a baby.
And beside that was a new photograph.
Sophie and Mr. Harris.
He was kneeling so they were the same height.
Both were smiling.
Both had the same dimple.
Mrs. Parker stood beside me.
“She worked on it for two days,” she said.
At the bottom of the page was a small drawing of a cardboard box.
I smiled.
The box wasn’t on top of my closet anymore.
It was on the bookshelf in Sophie’s room.
The knitted hat was still inside.
So was the hospital photograph.
Isabella’s letters.
And everything else William had saved for her.
But now Sophie could open it whenever she wanted.
Richard had told me to give it to her when she was old enough to ask.
It took me seven years to understand.
She already had.
Sophie came running down the hallway.
“Mom, come see.”
“I see it.”
“No.”
She grabbed my hand.
“This.”
She pointed to the line she’d written beneath all four photographs.
There were no labels like biological, adoptive, first, or second.
Just four words in Sophie’s careful handwriting.
“They’re all my family.”
