Alexander’s reply came almost at once.
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“I won’t.”
Daniel was still on the phone, waiting for me to answer his question.
I told him about the envelope, then sent him the photograph.
“I’m coming over,” he said.
“You don’t need to.”
“I know,” he replied. “But you shouldn’t have to decide what to do with this alone.”
When he arrived, he examined the image without touching my phone, as if even the picture deserved to be handled carefully.
“Where is the original?” he asked.
“Alexander has it.”
“Then we should arrange to see it in person, with him present, and establish how it came to be in his
father’s papers.”
I looked again at my mother’s name, written in the corner beneath mine.
“Could she have sent it to his father?”
“Possibly,” Daniel said. “Or she may have asked him to keep it for her.”
