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.
Isabella was lying in a hospital bed with newborn Sophie asleep against her chest.
Mr. Harris read silently.
Then something inside him seemed to give way.
“What?” Sophie asked.
He handed me the letter.
Near the bottom was another line.
“If you ever meet her, her name is Sophie. She has your ridiculous dimple when she smiles.”
I looked at Sophie.
She had a dimple in her left cheek.
So did Mr. Harris.
Sophie touched hers.
“She knew you?”
