It looked intimate.
“I found this last month,” she said. “I sent it to Andrew today. I couldn’t stay quiet after seeing those babies. He’s gone to speak with Daniel.”
It looked intimate.
The room tilted. “He’s what?”
“He wanted answers, dear. Somebody had to give them.”
Andrew was out there discussing my faithfulness with someone else, while I sat here, cut open, begging his voicemail to love me.
“He’s what?”
I looked at the photograph again.
The gingham tablecloth. The paper plates.
Andrew’s cousin’s birthday barbecue, last summer. Daniel had hugged me while the crowd was singing.
I looked at the photograph again.
“Andrew was right beside us,” I said. “You’ve cut him out.”
“And that makes the way you’re looking at Daniel all right?”
“It makes your proof a family photograph.” I turned to my mother. “Mom, find the original in the family group chat. The whole picture.”
