“I can see a bit of Julie in this sweet little boy,” Camille said. They both shared a certain vulnerable look, maybe because they had both been hurt by the world at a tender age. She scanned the background of the picture—a pitted stone wall, some straggling plants, a broken gate, and a large building. She wondered what Finn would make of it. Then she chided herself for letting her mind wander to Finn.

There were only three more photos. She wished there were more. Did no one care to take pictures of this lovely little boy?

A school photo showed a grinning Henri, a missing front tooth indicating he was probably six or seven. Then there was a picture of him in a long robe, walking in a line of similarly garbed boys and girls.

“Graduation?” Julie asked.

“Church confirmation,” he said. “It was a big deal back then.”

Camille noticed a shadow under one eye, and the lid was puffy. “Looks like you were in a fight.”

“Does it?” He shrugged. “I don’t recall.” His mouth twitched slightly, and he passed a finger over the somber, wounded face of the boy in the processional. Camille wondered what memories the photo sparked.

“There’s one more,” said Julie, studying a picture of a heavyset boy standing in front of the same broken wall. “Is this you, Papi? It doesn’t really look like you.”

He glanced at the yellowed print. “Yes, that is me. I was probably about your age, or perhaps a year or two older.”

In that final photo, he looked like a different child. His clothes were ill-fitting, his haircut terrible, and there was a distant look in his eyes. He appeared extremely uncomfortable—and overweight. Camille had only ever known her father to be slender and quite ridiculously handsome.

He smiled at Julie as if reading her mind. “I went through a chubby phase. This was when I was known as Bouboule.”

“What’s that mean?” she asked.

“Tubby. Butterball.”

Julie stared at the boy in the picture. “I’ve heard worse.” Then she picked up a thick cardboard folder bound with twine. On the front was a label that read Lisette. “What do you suppose is in this?” She untied the string and peeked inside. “More photos! Maybe these are pictures of your mother,” she said, taking out the large collection.

The photographs depicted a small town and countryside. There were close-ups of random objects and landscapes of farms, hills, and a river to the sea, fishing boats, faces, open-air markets, stone-built sheds and huts, scenes of daily life.

Camille was struck by the quality of the pictures. Unlike the snapshots of her father, these compositions were sophisticated, the images crystal clear and expertly developed. “These are seriously good,” she said. “Do you know who took them?”

He shook his head again. “I don’t recall anyone taking photos. Perhaps Lisette collected them.”

“They’re pretty wonderful. Someone had a good eye and a good camera.” The backs of the photos were unlabeled and undated. She carefully placed the photos back in the pleated folder. “I’d like to study these further.”