“Sit,” she tells Evelien, flicking her chin toward the bed. That’s when I notice a thin but large book in her hands.

Evelien looks to me for confirmation, a habit that’s become infrequent as of late, but for this situation, I can’t blame her.

“Listen, now, to your oma.” I encourage her by patting the area on the coverlet next to me. Defying the woman will earn Evelien no points, but also my interest is piqued.

Mrs. Jansen takes her place on the other side of the girl and opens the book—a scrapbook—and points to the first photo.

“This baby… You see?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “This is your mama.”

Though still cautious, Evelien leans in for a closer view.

“And this boy—your uncle. Arie.”

There’s a sharp pull in my heart, as I’ve never viewed these pictures before, had no idea they existed. Moreover, their neat arrangement and the lingering smell of rubber cement suggests they were assembled only recently and with care.

Moisture rims my eyes as she goes from page to page. School certificates and report cards, even some classroom art projects are adhered throughout. Although her narratives are sparse, she addresses each of Evelien’s inquiries over the contents.

Halfway through, at the top of another report card, the name penned in cursive takes me by surprise.

“You included mine,” I realize aloud.

Mrs. Jansen tsks, her brow pinched, as if the observation is idiotic. “Of course. This is book for family.” Then she promptly resumes her presentation, but the meaning behind her reply causes a few tears to sneak down my face. A few more follow when we reach Arie’s military portrait. In his Army dress uniform, he’s so dashing the sight briefly steals my breath.

Averse to dampening the mood, however, I latch onto the diversion of Evelien perking up at the next photos. Clearly sent by her mother, they include the couple’s wedding portrait and a snapshot of them posing by a canal. Bubbling with growing excitement, Evelien volunteers the names of her uncle and aunt and cousins. It saddens me to know they’re all gone, but then I marvel at how, in this moment, that doesn’t at all sink the girl’s spirits. And when she spots herself at various ages, I can’t help but smile at her giggles.

As soon as we reach the end, Mrs. Jansen shuts the cover. No fanfare. “You sleep now,” she tells Evelien. “When you are older, we read letters from your mama.” She’s about to stand but instead pauses and peers at Evelien. The girl gazes back, unblinking. Without a word, Mrs. Jansen touches the top of her granddaughter’s hair, a tender stroke that trails off at her little round cheek. Then the woman rises and leaves the room, but not before I catch the glimmer of wistful tears in her eyes.

***