PART 2
“That’s my father.”
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Mrs. Parker gave a confused laugh.
“What?”
Mr. Harris pointed to the half-face.
“His name was Richard. That’s my father.”
I looked at the photograph again.
There was hardly anything there. Half an eye. Part of a cheek. Gray hair.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
His voice sounded different now.
He unfolded the clipping completely and moved his finger beneath the photograph of Sophie’s biological parents.
Then he read the names beneath it.
His face changed.
“Isabella.”
Sophie looked up.
“That was my first mommy.”
Mr. Harris gripped the edge of the desk.
“Your mother’s name was Isabella?”
“Yes, Isabella.”
He stared at her.
I saw the moment something clicked. Not recognition exactly. Something that seemed to knock the air out of him.
Mr. Harris looked around the classroom, as if suddenly remembering 20 children were watching us.
Then he turned to me.
“Could you and Sophie come to my office, please?”
Mrs. Parker started to speak.
“You too,” he said.
To read what he told us behind his office door,
