And every time I saw him, I caught another glimpse of the young man I’d once loved. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind me.
The strangest part was that Miles had no idea.
Neither did his father. As far as either of them knew, I was simply Maddy’s mother. Nothing more.
Eventually, the shock faded. Life settled back into something resembling normal.
Then Miles called one Saturday morning.
“Any chance you and Maddy are free this afternoon?”
“For what?”
“My dad’s retirement party.”
I laughed. “That’s still three months away.”
“I know.” He sounded exhausted. “I’m trying to put together one of those photo montages.”
“Oh.”
“Three decades of photographs.” I could hear the suffering in his voice. “Thousands of them.”
Now I laughed harder. “That bad?”
“Worse.”
“Need help?”
“Please.”
A few hours later, our dining room table had disappeared beneath stacks of photographs. There were albums. Shoeboxes. Loose prints. Envelopes. Miles had brought enough pictures to document an entire lifetime.
