That afternoon, Amanda took a photograph of herself kissing Sophie’s cheek.
I had printed it alongside a picture of the handwritten message Amanda had put on the back.
I held the page toward her.
“Read what you wrote.”
Amanda didn’t move.
So I read it aloud.
“No matter how much you change, you’ll always be my beautiful girl. Love, Aunt Amanda.”
Travis looked at his bride.
“You wrote that?”
She nodded.
“Then what happened?” he asked.
Amanda’s eyes filled with tears.
“Nothing happened. I love Sophie.”
“Then why isn’t she here?”
Amanda had no answer.
I closed the album halfway, suddenly aware of how many people were watching a conversation that should never have reached this point.
But there was one final photograph I wanted Amanda to see.
It showed two little girls standing beside a birthday cake.
I was 12, and Amanda was eight.
She had a small scar near her left eyebrow from falling against a table when she was four.
