No demand that I return to the family.
No request that I testify against him.
Just memory.
That was enough.
At Arthur’s house, Evelyn found the photograph in his desk.
Twenty-six years old.
Creased.
Worn.
“You kept it.”
Arthur looked at the picture.
“Why?”
She asked.
He finally answered:
“Because throwing it away would have meant I had made a mistake.”
“You did make a mistake.”
“I know.”
Evelyn did not soften it.
“Then why let her believe you never wanted her?”