I wept because of what the photograph proved about Nicolas.

The answer had been in his own family, in a box in his own closet, the whole time.

If he had loved his son even a little — if his first instinct on seeing that dark hair had been curiosity instead of accusation, tenderness instead of arithmetic — he might have gone looking, might have called his mother, might have found this very picture and laughed with wonder at how the old features come back around.

Instead he had reached first for betrayal.

That was the thing the photograph exposed, more than any DNA test could.

It was not evidence of my faithfulness.