Almost

Chapter 61: Hope

When they returned to the cabin, George was sitting on the couch with large bound book in his hand, his facial features swimming in concern.

"Hi, Dad," Katherine eked out as he came to carefully hug her.

George looked at Crawley over her head, and the auror nodded and wearily, hesitantly walked up the stairs towards his bedroom.

"How are you feeling?" her father asked, looking down at her sunken face.

"Never been better," she answered with a half-hearted laugh. It felt pitiful even to her own ears, so she walked to curl up on the couch near where he'd been sitting.

George sighed, coming to sit next to her. "I brought something I thought you'd like to see. If you feel up for it."

"What is it?"

"They're . . . well, they're all of the letters your mother sent. All of the pictures. I thought you might want to look through them."

He held the book out to her, and Katherine now noticed plastic page protectors inside—like a baby book of sorts. The cover had a stamped ivy leaf pattern on the front.

She recognized her mother's messy handwriting immediately, and it made her laugh despite herself. She flipped the pages and looked at the polaroid photos first—a snapshot of her life in six-month increments taken on her mother's beloved camera. Her sitting in the coffee shop coloring with blue crayon, a cookie and a glass of milk at her side. Her first day of school, hand raised triumphantly above her head as if she'd won the gold medal in kindergarten. Her in a park at seven, watching the bubbles she'd just blown float above her, awe etched in her eyes at the sight of the tiny rainbows. Her tenth birthday where her and Max, well established in their friendship at that point, were chasing after balloons to pop in her backyard.

"I like this one," George said, flipping ahead to her as a teenager. Her friend Renae had taken it, in the midst of her photography phase, when her and Abby were over one night. Katherine and Evie were on the couch, a take-out box on their laps. Evie's arm was around Katherine's shoulders, her free hand holding a slice of pepperoni pizza. Both of them were laughing at something that Abby was saying out of frame. Katherine's eyes were trained on Abby, but Evie's eyes were focused entirely on her daughter.

They looked young and carefree and so incredibly happy.

Katherine's eyes drifted to the letter on the page opposite the photo.

"George,

Katherine's begun her second year of high school. It's hard to imagine that she's not far off from where we were when we met. When she was born. Every time I look at her, I'm reminded of how young we were.

She's doing very well in school and still has every intention of being a lawyer. I have no doubt that she can do whatever she sets her mind to, even if I worry about her doing something so stressful. But there are a few attorneys from work who have taken her under their wing. She's still in the marching band—maybe next year I'll send a photo of her in her uniform. A far cry from those Quitchy robes you showed me.

She's getting quieter. More reserved. It's odd—she's always been so confident. And I don't think that's gone. It's just become closer. As if she simply won't give the world the opportunity to question her. I sometimes think I should give her a reverse curfew—not allow her home until 10. She does have some good friends, though, and they pull her away from her books often enough.

I've been thinking about your request, and I just don't think I can do it to her. You've missed so much of her life. And to explain it all to her right now . . . she's just settling into herself. Still finding her own way. This morning, we were drinking coffee before she went off to school (I've tried to get her to switch to tea, but she's so bloody American. And the worst at getting up in the morning—a trait she inherited from you, thanks), and she asked me about you again. I don't even know how to answer her. I don't even know if I really know you. I'm sorry, I just can't push her into this world that pushed her away. Not yet.