Dear Sophia,

I wonder if anyone will ever see these letters. And if anyone does see them, I wonder if they'll be able to read past that last letter. I cannot count the number of times I have wished to have those moments of our lives back. To be able to make them right. All we would have had to do was shut up. Silence. It would have saved our family. Now, I think, we are beyond saving.

The truth is, from what I know of your mother today (which is precious little, to be honest, pieced together from a million profiles and articles and interviews), she would have made a wonderful addition to the Potter family. Or, should I say, to the Potter family as it existed then. She is a part of the Potter family today. A new Potter family, your Potter family. One I am not a part of.

But oh, if only. If we had given her a chance. If we had listened to your father. If, if, if. But it's true. If we'd stopped for a moment and listened instead of just demanding more answers…well, I know we would have loved your mother. We would have loved your mother and your father together. This is probably the worst part of it all, the hardest to admit.

We don't speak of your parents in our family…when we are together it is as though they do not exist. As though we have erased them from our collective memory bank. Which is impossible. I am sure that everyone else does just the same as I do and follows your family privately.

I remember the photos from your parents' wedding. They, too, were on the cover of Witch Weekly magazine. It was the Christmas time. I'd never seen your father look so happy in my life. The cover photo was a candid—despite the fact that your mother looked directly into the camera through lowered eyes and thick eyelashes, a small smile playing on her lips. And your mother's unfixed gaze could have burned a hole through anyone who viewed the photograph. Your father, arms wrapped around her from the side, rested his forehead against her temple, kissing her cheeks lightly. He wore a smile to which my words will never do justice. So bright. So real.

James Sirius Potter and Aisling Grace Barrow wed in London on a crisp December evening surrounded by their friends and her family. Potter, who famously parted with his quidditch team and family for his love, found the evening particularly poignant.

"We're beginning our own family now," he said, wistfully, as he kissed his new wife's knuckles. "I've been looking forward to this since the moment we met two and a half years ago."

She blushed and looked away, smiling but embarrassed, stunning in a voluminous, architectural crème satin gown.

I saved that article. Just like I saved the one about your birth and your first photo. A scrap book of memories I have missed out on. Memories that could have been mine.

Your father left our family and never looked back. He did not make a single pleading letter. Did not make any statements to the press that gave even the slightest hint that we could reach out to him again. Maybe, in the end, it was best for him.

He and your mother lived in neighbouring London apartment buildings for the next 2 years because she did not believe in living together until they were married. They were, instead, as close as they could be. Joined at the hip, your Grandmother would say. Over the course of those two years it became increasingly rare to see a picture of either of your parents alone. The photographs seemed to tell a story of two people falling ever more deeply in love, becoming more entwined in each other's lives with each passing day. I cannot remember a single bad picture, a fact which for years made me even angrier at them both, at what damage I perceived that they had done to my life. It is only recently that I have gained some distance, some perspective.

Over the course of those two years (and even still today) your mother's marketing and business savvy combined with your father's talent and innate stardom have lifted his career to even higher heights. He has been more successful without us—his brothers, his team—than he had been with us. He was immediately scouted by the Falcons and he is now on the international team. And your mother stands beside him always, quietly supportive, but uninterested in the attention naturally cast her way. It turns out that she was not, as we had suspected, using your father for her own gain. She was, instead, supporting his career always.

That is not to say that your mother hasn't been successful herself, as an individual. In fact, she has been extremely successful. And just as you should grow up knowing your parents love story, you should grow up knowing that your mother is a powerful, talented and respected businesswoman—a role model in her own right. It's just that her successes have lead to more successes for your father. Her business is his business and vice versa.

Your mother and father, they truly are a family business, and it has allowed them to come together in ways I'm sure many husbands and wives (famous and non-famous alike) must envy. They have both flourished as a result; they are both in demand in their respective professions. And at the end of the day, they always come home to each other. They are a modern partnership. They are a modern love story.

I envy them. I have not yet experienced a love like theirs. I fear, often, that I never will. That I will suffer some kind of cosmic punishment for my behaviour towards your parents.

I pray every day that I will be as lucky as they are. I pray every day that somehow, someday this will all be over. That I will know you, and your family, again. These are things I do not expect.

All my love,

Uncle Al.

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CHECK OUT "MY PROMISE" (second in series. it covers the story of James and Ash from the beginning)