We had been married three months, had very little money, and had eaten sandwiches in the car because our picnic was ruined by rain.

“You knew what I was like when I lost my mother,” I said.

“Yes.”

“You saw me cry every Mother’s Day.

You held my hand at Dad’s funeral when I said I was losing my last parent.”

He shut the album gently.

“I know.”

“Then you can understand why it hurt that you knew she was alive and didn’t tell me.”