In one, Preston and I stood outside my father’s hotel, laughing after a sudden summer storm.

He had held his jacket over my head and looked delighted to be soaked himself.

“I loved him,” I said.

“I believe you.”

“Maybe he loved me, once.”

“Maybe.

But that doesn’t make what he’s done acceptable.”

I kept the photograph, not because I wanted to return to him, but because I didn’t want to erase the woman who had believed in that marriage.