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.