At Robert’s kitchen table I opened the wooden box and laid Linda’s letter inside.

The photograph of the silver-haired man went beside it, face up.

I had spent years thinking the photograph belonged to a part of my mother’s life she had closed off from me.

Now it belonged to my own history, whether I liked the lost years or not.

Robert stood at the sink rinsing a plate.

He asked if I would rather keep the letter somewhere private.

I said no.