Sophia returned carrying a large piece of drawing paper.
The edges were slightly curled, and one corner had been folded. She placed it carefully on the kitchen table.
I looked down.
The picture showed three people standing beneath a tree.
A man in a blue suit.
A little girl wearing a pink dress.
And a woman with long dark hair, surrounded by yellow flowers.
Above them were uneven letters.
MY FAMILY.
I stared.
My throat tightened.
Sophia stood beside me.
"That's Mommy."
I nodded.
"I can see."
She pointed toward the man.
"That's you."
I smiled through tears.
"And that's you."
She nodded.
Then she touched the yellow flowers.
"Mommy liked those."
I looked toward the picture.
My first wife had loved sunflowers.
She used to buy them whenever she found a good bouquet at the market, placing them in the kitchen where the morning light made the petals glow.
Sophia remembered.
Even after all those years.
I felt tears slipping down my cheeks.
My daughter noticed.
"Are you sad?"
I looked at her.
"A little."
She lowered her eyes.
I immediately understood what she was thinking.
I took a breath.
"But I'm also happy you showed me."
Sophia looked up.
"Really?"
I nodded.
"Really."
She studied my face.
Then she whispered, "Patricia said pictures of Mommy made you unhappy."
I looked toward the yellow flowers.
"Sometimes I miss her so much it hurts."
Sophia nodded.
"I do too."
I reached for her hand.
"But remembering her is also one of the ways we keep loving her."
My daughter's expression softened.
Then she asked, "Can we hang it up?"
I smiled through tears.
"Where would you like it?"
She looked toward the refrigerator.
"Right there."
I nodded.
We found magnets.
Then we placed the drawing on the refrigerator door.
I stepped back.
Sophia stood beside me.
For several seconds, we looked at the picture together.
Then she smiled.
"It's like Mommy's here."
I put an arm around her shoulders.
"Yeah, sweetheart."
My voice broke.
"It is."
A few weeks later, my mother-in-law brought over a small wooden box.
It had belonged to my first wife.
I recognized it immediately.
The lid was decorated with a painted sunflower, and the hinges squeaked slightly when opened. My wife had kept photographs, little notes, and small keepsakes inside it while she was alive.
After her death, the box had been stored at her mother's house.
I'd avoided looking at it for years.
Not because I wanted to forget.
Because I was afraid of how much remembering would hurt.
My mother-in-law placed it on the kitchen table.