Emily Thompson stood in the middle of the living room, a blank folder clutched in her hands, shivering at the sight of a single photograph.
Did you throw away the receipts from last year? she demanded, voice trembling. James, I told you not to touch them!
What receipts? James Thompson snapped, pulling himself away from the flickering screen. He stared at her, bewildered. I didnt throw anything away!
Then where are they? The folder is empty! Emily shook the folder in front of his nose.
I have no idea! Maybe you put them somewhere else?
I didnt move them! I need them for the HMRC, urgently!
James exhaled, rose from the sofa and said, Fine, lets look. Where did you last see them?
Right here, on this shelf, in this folder!
They began rummaging through the cluttered shelving unit. James pulled out boxes while Emily peered inside, uncovering old CDs, tangled cords, assorted keychains, and trinkets from past holidays.
Look in that corner box, James nodded, returning to the television.
Emily reached for a dusty cardboard crate that had clearly lain untouched for years. Inside lay a stack of faded photo albums, their hardcovers worn from decades of handling. She pulled one out, flipped it open, and stared at pictures of James as a child: a chubby boy scooping sand, a firstgrader holding a bouquet, a teenager strumming a guitar. She smiled; she had seen all of these before, the snapshots James had shown her when they first met.
She took a second album, opened it at random, and froze.
The photograph showed a young James, about twentyfive, cradling a threeyearold girl in a pink dress. The child’s curls framed a laughing face, and James gazed at her with a tenderness that made Emilys heart tighten. She had never seen that look before. They had no children; doctors had told her pregnancy was impossible after her operation. James had comforted her then, saying, It doesnt matter, as long as we have each other.
Yet here he was, holding a child, looking happier than she had ever seen him.
Her hands trembled as she turned the picture over. In faded ink on the back read: James and Poppy. July.
Poppy.
Who was Poppy?
Emily feverishly flipped through the album. More pictures followed: James feeding the girl icecream, the two on a swing, James tucking her into bed. In every image the same aching tenderness glowed in his eyes.
James, Emily called, her voice thin and foreign to her own ears. Come here.
What? Did you find the receipts? he entered the room, eyes widening at the photo album in her hands. Emily, its not what you think
Not what? she asked, clutching the album tighter. What did you think I was thinking, anyway?
Let me explain
Explain! Who is that girl? Why are you holding her like shes your daughter?
James sank onto the sofa, covering his face with his hands.
Its Maya. My niece.
Niece? Emilys disbelief rose. You have no siblings!
There was a cousin, a cousinonceremovedLucy. She was ten years older than me.
Emily sat beside him, her pulse hammering.
You never mentioned a sister.
Because she died, James lifted his head, tears glistening. Lucy passed away many years ago, when Poppy was five.
And Poppy?
James fell silent, the silence stretching so long Emily felt the room tilt.
James, tell me!
Maya also died, six months after her mother. Leukaemia.
Emily exhaled sharply, the album slipping from her fingers and scattering across the floor in a fan of memories.
Good Lord
I never spoke of it because I couldnt, James whispered. Every time I think of her, my throat tightens. She was bright, lively, and I adored her. After Lucy died, Maya went to her grandparentsold, frail people. I visited every weekend, played games, and she called me Uncle Jamie. Then she fell ill. Doctors gave her a chance, but it wasnt enough.
Emily stared at him, unsure what to say. He looked older, almost a stranger.
I was twentyeight when she died, he continued. I swore Id have childrenlots of themto fill the void. Then I met you, fell in love, learned we couldnt have our own. I thought maybe that was for the best, because I was terrified of loving another small person and losing them again.
Emily reached for his hand, slipping her palm over his.
Why didnt you tell me earlier?
I was ashamed. A man crying over a child I didnt want to add to your pain.
They sat in mute, the scattered photos a mute testimony. One showed Poppy blowing dandelion seeds, another building sandcastles, a typical little girl in a pink frock.
James asked gently, Can you pick them up? Carefully, they mean a lot to me.
Emily knelt, gathering the cards while James handed her the ones that had slipped under the sofa.
This is my favourite, he said, handing over a picture of Poppy perched on his shoulder, arms spread wide. We were at the zoo. She saw a giraffe and screamed with delight, making everyone turn.
Emily examined the image; James looked youthful, carefree, and Poppy laughed, sunlight bathing the scene.
Did she look like Lucy? she asked.
Exactly. Both were restless, both loved to laugh. Lucy was the life of every gathering. When she gave birth to Poppy, Id just returned from the army and fell for that tiny bundle at first sight.
What about Poppys father?
He abandoned Lucy while she was pregnant. He fled as soon as he learned a child was on the way. Lucy raised her alone, working hard. I helped where I couldmoney, babysitting. When Lucy fell ill, she asked me to look after Poppy if anything happened. I promised, but never got the chance. Her grandparents took Poppy, and I was left on the sidelines, a peripheral figure. When Poppy got sick, they didnt even tell me right away. Granddad thought it wasnt my concern.
Jamess voice cracked. He cleared his throat, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.
Im sorry. I cant talk about this without choking.
Emily wrapped her arms around him, pressing his cheek to her shoulder.
I thought Id moved on, he murmured, but sometimes I dream she runs to me shouting, Uncle Jamie! and I wake up to an empty room.
She whispered, Cry, love. Dont hold it in.
He wept silently, then, after a long while, wiped his face.
Stupid me, he muttered, fortythree and still sobbing like a schoolboy.
Youre not stupid. Youre human, with a heart.
James managed a faint smile.
Thank you for not judging.
Judging what? Loving a child? Its beautiful, James.
He nodded, rose, and paced the room.
Didnt find the receipts, he said with a crooked grin.
Forget the receipts, Emily waved it off. I found something far more important.
What?
Your heart.
James snorted.
Youre such a romantic.
Because I love you.
Because I love you.
They returned the photographs to the album, Emily turning each page, asking for details, and James recounting the stories, his voice steadier each time.
This one is hilarious, he said, pointing to a picture of Poppy drenched in raspberry jam from head to toe, giggling, I left her alone for five minutes, she knocked over a jam jar, turned the kitchen into a slipnslide, and shouted, Im a bear! Lucy scolded me all afternoon for not watching her.
Emily laughed, the room lightening.
What if we adopted? she asked suddenly.
James froze.
What?
Adopt a child. If kids matter to you, we could give a little one a home, love them.
He stared at the photo of Poppy, then at Emily.
Youre serious?
Absolutely. Ive thought about it for a long time but was scared to bring it up. I thought you wouldnt want a child that wasnt yours.
There are no other children, James said softly. Poppy wasnt my blood, but I loved her more than anything.
Then lets share that love with another.
James pulled Emily into a tight embrace, the kind that creaked the old wooden chairs.
Youre my miracle, you know?
I know, she replied, smiling. Thats why you married me.
They lingered, talking about the future, about fear, about risk.
Life itself is a gamble, Emily said. You married me that was a gamble. I could have been a shrew, but luck was on your side.
Luck, James agreed, finally laughing genuinely.
A few days later they signed up for a fosterparent course. James fidgeted like a teenager before an exam; Emily held his hand, calming him. The course covered child attachment, legal hurdles, and the emotional landscape of fostering. James took notes, his eyes bright. Emily watched him, seeing the man shed fallen in love with beneath the silent façade.
When the training ended, they visited a local childrens home. Emily hoped for a little girl, five or six. James stayed quiet, nodding.
They were shown several children: shy Kat, energetic Verity, timid Sophie. Jamess gaze hovered, detached, until a caregiver brought a fouryearold boy in her arms.
This is Milo, she introduced. Hes the youngest in the group.
Milo was pale, curlyhaired, with huge blue eyes that darted to James, clutching the caregiver tightly.
James reached out, gently rubbing the boys head.
Hello, Milo.
Hello, the child whispered.
Dont be scared, I dont bite.
Im scared.
Scared of what?
That you wont take me.
James halted, looked at Emily, and saw the same tender light that had shone in his eyes in the photographs with Poppy.
Well take you, James said hoarsely. Well take you.
Emily wrapped her arms around Jamess shoulders.
Yes, Milo. Well take you, if you dont mind.
Milos tentative smile widened. He shuffled closer, and James lifted him into his arms, pressing him against his chest.
Will you live with us? James asked.
I will, Milo nodded, burying his nose in Jamess shoulder.
Emily watched, tears brimming, realizing that the album had not been opened to uncover a secret, but to free Jamess heart from its old grief, to let it open to new love.
The adoption paperwork took months. Weekends became visits to Milos new home, playing games, reading stories. Milo soon called James Uncle Jamie and Emily Aunt Em.
When will I call you Mom and Dad? he asked one afternoon.
When youre ready, Emily answered. No rush.
A week later, as James fetched Milo for a walk, the boy shouted, Dad, lets go swing!
James froze, then crouched, hugging the boy tightly.
Alright, son. Lets go.
Emily, standing nearby, saw Jamess shoulders tremble, his eyes glistening with tears of joy.
When they finally brought Milo home, they threw a small celebration: balloons, a modest cake, and invited a few neighbours. Milo ran around, squealing, amazed that the room was his.
Is this really my room? he asked, eyes wide at the freshly made bed and toy shelves. Forever?
Forever, Emily promised. Youre our son now.
Milo climbed onto the bed, sinking into pillows.
Ive waited so long, he whispered. Ive wanted a mum and a dad.
Emily snuggled next to him, feeling the warmth of a new family settle over them.
Later that night, after Milo fell asleep, James retrieved the old album, opening the picture of him holding Poppy.
Thank you, little one, he murmured, for leading me to Milo, for not letting me close up.
Emily slipped behind him, hugging his waist.
Youre brave, she said. You finally chose.
Couldnt have done it without you.
They stood, staring at the photograph. Poppy seemed to smile, as if approving the new chapter. Emily felt a strange flicker, as though the girl in the pink dress watched over them from the clouds.
Do you think shes upset I love Milo? James asked softly.
Shed want you happy, Emily replied.
I am happy, James said, closing the album. He placed it on the shelf, where a fresh, blank album waitedready for Milos first birthday, first holiday, first triumphs.
The old photos would remain, a tender, bittersweet archive. Without them, the future would lack the depth that made it precious. Without loss, there would be no appreciation for gain. Without pain, the true meaning of joy would be unknown.
Emily was grateful for that random moment that forced her to open the album, for it revealed Jamess heart and gave him a chance to be a father again. James thanked her for not recoiling from his past, for staying, for guiding him toward new life.
Now they had a family, real and whole, with a child who awaited them each evening, with plans, with hope. And somewhere high above, a little girl in a pink dress watched them, smiling.
