My friend Caroline, whose family moved to Paris from Mauritius when she was a young woman, has been going through her parents' things since her father died not long ago. She has been very sad, missing them and having to do all the work alone, even though she is one of five children and works full-time.
One day she was looking at an old cushion from her parents' living-room sofa, stuffed, as she thought, with horsehair, and decided to keep the cushion cover and throw out the stuffing. But when she put her hands in to pull out the horsehair, she felt papers instead. She carefully removed the cover, and there, hiding just out of sight all those years on the sofa, were all her parents' love letters from the 1940s, before they got married.
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