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.
A few minutes later, Sophie sat beside me in the principal’s office, still holding my hand.
Mr. Harris closed the door.
Then he crouched in front of her.
“Was your mother’s name Isabella H before she got married?”
I felt Sophie’s fingers tighten around mine.
“I don’t know.”
But I did.
I’d seen the name on documents years ago.
“Yes,” I said.
Mr. Harris closed his eyes.
When he opened them, they were wet.
“Isabella was my sister.”
Sophie stared at him.
I thought I’d misheard.
“What?”
“My older sister.”
He pointed at the clipping.
“That’s my sister.”
Mrs. Parker slowly sat down.
Mr. Harris didn’t seem to notice.
He was looking only at Sophie.
“She left home when I was 16. I knew she got married. Years later, my father told me she’d had a baby girl.”
His voice broke.
“A girl named Sophie.”
I couldn’t speak.
Sophie could.
“Me?”
Mr. Harris nodded.
“You.”
She stared at him for several seconds.
“Then what are you?”
It was such a seven-year-old question that something in his expression collapsed.
“I’m your uncle.”
Sophie looked at me.
Then back at him.
“My real uncle?”
“Your biological uncle,” I said carefully.
Then he immediately looked at me.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“No.” I squeezed Sophie’s hand. “Uncle is fine.”
Mr. Harris sat on the floor.
He didn’t seem to care that he was the principal anymore.
“I’ve wondered where you were for seven years.”
That sentence hit me harder than everything else.
“Wait.”
