I kept it in a box on the top shelf of my closet.
It was the article about the accident that k*lled Wynne’s biological parents. Under the headline, a photograph of her mother and father, smiling together.
“I wanted my first family too,” Wynne whispered.
My anger disappeared.
Before I could answer, the principal, Mr. Amory, walked in.
Mrs. Tolland handed him the clipping. “That’s what she brought.”
He glanced at it. Then he stopped.
His eyes went back to the photograph. He stepped to the window and read the article from beginning to end.
“Where did Wynne get this?”
“From my house.”
He looked around the room. “Everyone stay seated.”
Mrs. Tolland frowned. “Why?”
He didn’t answer. He took out his phone and photographed one small section near the bottom of the clipping.
I had never noticed it. Beside the article was part of a second photograph, almost entirely cut away when I saved the story years ago.
Only half of a man’s face remained.
Mr. Amory stared at it. Then at Wynne.
He locked the classroom door.
“Mr. Amory, what’s going on?”
He didn’t answer me. He took out his wallet, and from behind his driver’s license he drew a newspaper photograph so old and so often folded that it had gone soft at the creases.
