In a plastic box in the back of my wardrobe is the most precious thing I own. Not my old engagement ring, though that is there, or some but not all of my children’s baby teeth. In this box is a single sheet containing the image of a blond girl, about 11 years old, half-smiling at a stranger. A treasured possession: it’s the only school photo I haven’t lost yet.
While it’s recognisable as a photo of my kid, who’s now 20, it’s not exactly like her. She’s smiling in a way I’ve never seen, as though someone has just explained to her that the corners of her mouth are allowed to turn up. Her hair is parted at the side instead of the middle. The top button of her polo shirt is fastened, which I know irritated her to the point of tears.
