That is the part of the story I would want on a wall.
Not the photograph. Not the clipping.
The fact that a seven-year-old walked into a classroom with a piece of paper that her mother had hidden on a closet shelf, and a teacher called it inappropriate, and a principal, who had spent seven years waiting for an answer, took one look at the cut edge of it and locked the door.
The two halves are laminated now.
Mr. Amory did it himself, on the school’s machine, with a ruler and a very steady hand, so that the join runs straight down the middle, a clear line in the plastic, like a seam in a quilt. He gave it to Wynne in a manila envelope the following Monday, with a card.
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She wanted her first family too. Now she has the whole picture.
It is on her bedroom wall, above the bed, at a height she can reach.
