The letter to Ruth Ellison was the most difficult thing Nora had ever written. She had to strike a balance between professional detachment and the desperate need to reach a stranger across time. She wrote simply, mentioning that she was an archivist researching a Victorian photograph and that she believed it depicted a member of Ruth’s family.
She waited two days in a state of suspended animation, her phone silent. When it finally rang, she held her breath. “I know that photograph,” the voice on the other end said. It was steady, though it carried a slight tremor. “My mother had a copy. She said it was the only proof that her grandmother had ever existed.”
Nora’s chest tightened. There was no hesitation, no confusion. Ruth had been waiting for this for her entire life, perhaps even before she knew what she was waiting for. They spoke for an hour, the distance between London and Bristol shrinking with every shared detail. Ruth didn’t ask about money or legal claims; she asked about Eleanor. She wanted to know if her grandmother had been loved. Nora knew the answer was complicated, but as she listened, she knew she had to find out.