She did not acknowledge that my mother had spoken, which is a thing she does and which I had watched her do at family tables for eleven years.

She simply reached into the envelope and brought out one more photograph.

Part Forty-Four: The Cropped Photograph

This one had been cut right in: Brian and me, our heads close together, his arm across my shoulders, my face turned up and laughing.

It looked like something.

And here is the thing about that photograph which I need to say clearly, because the easy version of this story is that it was obviously fake and nobody with any sense would have been taken in by it.

It was not obviously anything.