The Girl Who Never Smiled

"Ruby," my mother calls from downstairs, "Your father dropped something off." I glance up from my growing pile of tissues, wiping my reddened nose and walking slowly downstairs. My stomach grumbles with nausea and my nose drips. My mother is sitting on the backpack stool downstairs, looking at something that the delivery envelope covers. I sit down next to her, careful not to breathe in her face. We both smell like the flu.
"Look at this picture," she says, pointing to a photo of a young man with kindness in his eyes, "That's your grandfather when he was young and handsome." I never got to meet Opa Soekehar, as he died just before I was born. They say that I have his talents in music and speech, though; That I'd make a good lawyer, like him.
"And this one." My mother shows me a photo of a young woman with raven-black hair, smiling courteously through what looked like multiple layers of red lipstick. "That's me when I was just going to America. Do you like them?" I nod. I hardly ever get to see what few photos of my mother's family were on-hand. "I accidentally put them in the bag of things for your father, and so he gave them back. See? He still cares." My mind is far from that, however. Both Opa Soekehar and my young mother were smiling downward, as if someone told them to. The lies scream out to me. My mother reaches int he envelope one last time and pulls out a very small picture, just smaller than a stamp. Her eyes widen; she was expecting to see this one. She swallows and turns back to me, the picture wedge between creases in her palm.
"This little girl has a very hard life," she said, "She grew up with a lot of money, but then her mother died. Her father remarried, but neither family liked her except for her own in her house. She was told to stay in the kitchen during parties and to never be seen. This little girl didn't have the frilly socks that her friends did, but she still played along when she felt like it. She danced, too, and beautifully. Her parents didn't have time for her, though." My mother's teared up at this point. "This little girl still has a hard life, today. I know her very well."
"We have to help her," I whisper in terror and empathy.
"We do," my mother says, her voice shrinking. I grew up taught not to cry in front of others. My mother flees to another room to let her feelings go, leaving the pictures. I pick the smallest one up. The little girl isn't smiling at all. She looks angry and confused under her smooth skin and big brown eyes.
The photo falls out of my hand and lands on the floor, face-down. I read text on the back, very small and hand-written. It's barely legible, but what I make out is something familiar.

My mother's first name.

7:30 PM - Today

I hear a voice on the stereo downstairs, and I know it's him. He speaks like my uncle, but without the struggle from a stroke. He sounds young and his voice is very deep. He speaks in soft Bahasa, a language that I have yet to understand, and I hear my mother softly sobbing downstairs. She found the tape recording today. It's him, alright.