“She did come back.”
The kitchen went silent.
“What?”
“That photograph wasn’t the only time.”
I looked again at my mother sitting beside the lake.
Frank leaned forward.
“Seven months after the funeral, she was released into supervised care. Your dad met her.”
My stomach twisted.
“Without me?”
“She asked to see you.”
“And he said no?”
Frank nodded slowly.
I shoved away from the table.
“Of course he did.”
“No.”
Frank stood too.
“Listen to me. Your father brought you to that lake.”
My anger disappeared.
“What?”
“You were there.”
I stared at him.
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Yes.”
“I would remember seeing my mother.”
Frank’s expression became almost unbearable.
“You didn’t see her.”
He pointed at the photograph.
“Look in the background.”
I looked.
At first I saw only trees.
Then picnic tables.
Then, near the far edge of the image, a small boy in a red shirt stood near a fishing dock.
