Chapter 14 - The PhotographOne Sunday, Michael came over.
Mom had old photographs spread across the dining table.
Then she found one.
My father at twenty-six.
Beside Samuel Bennett.
Both men were young.
Both were laughing.
Their arms were around each other's shoulders.
Before the company.
Before betrayal.
Before secrets.
Before decades of resentment.
Michael stared at the photograph.
“I've never seen my father look that happy.”
Mom smiled sadly.
“They were best friends.”
I studied Dad's face.
For most of my life, I had believed parents became simpler as you grew older.
I was wrong.
They become more complicated.
My father had been loving.
Proud.
Generous.
Cowardly.
Ambitious.
He had made terrible decisions.
He had also tried, in his broken way, to protect two sons.
That didn't excuse him.
But it helped me understand him.
Michael touched the photograph.
“He should have told me.”
“Yes,” I said.
“He should have told you.”
I nodded.
May you like
“Everyone should have.”
And for once, nobody argued.
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