“What is this?”

“That,” I said, and my voice finally cracked with a sliver of the heartbreak I had held back for a month, “is Tate and Sela at Le Petit Bistro.

Eating crepes, drinking Bloody Marys.

The timestamp is 11:15 in the morning, on the day of my wedding.” My mother made a sound like the air had been punched out of her.

She looked over my father’s shoulder at the photo, then at Tate.

“You told me the doctor said Sela couldn’t move.