I let my mom borrow my car for a weekend getaway with her new boyfriend. When she returned it, the tank was full and everything looked spotless—except the glove box, which she’d clearly rifled through. I asked if she found what she was looking for.
She blinked and said, “You kept that photo?” My stomach dropped as she added, “I thought I burned every copy.”
I froze.
That picture had been tucked in there for years, nearly forgotten—creased, stained, but too painful to throw away. It was of me and Dad, taken a few weeks before everything went sideways.
We were at the lake, soaked and smiling like we didn’t know what was coming. And apparently, Mom hadn’t wanted me to remember any of it.
“What do you mean you burned every copy?” I asked.
My voice sounded too calm, considering my hands were shaking. Mom didn’t meet my eyes. She leaned on the hood of the car and shrugged, trying to sound casual.
“After the divorce, I went through everything.
I needed a fresh start.”
That much was true. She had cleared out the house so thoroughly, it felt like Dad had never lived there.
Photos disappeared, his books and shirts gone, even his goofy mug collection vanished overnight. I was sixteen, angry and confused, but no one really asked how I felt about it.
I opened the glove box and took out the photo.
It was still there, folded behind a crumpled insurance card. His smile hit me like a punch. I used to think I looked more like Mom, but seeing that photo again—it was obvious where I got my eyes and my grin.
“You tried to erase him,” I said quietly.
She looked at me then, her eyes softening. “You don’t know the full story.”
I wanted to tell her that I did.
That I’d pieced together enough. But something in her voice made me pause.
Maybe I didn’t know as much as I thought.
“Okay,” I said, surprising myself. “Tell me.”
Mom glanced toward the house. Her new boyfriend, Ron, was still inside, probably watching sports.
She pulled her cardigan tighter and sighed.
“Let’s take a walk.”
We walked the neighborhood in silence for a few minutes. She kept glancing at me, like trying to figure out how much to say.
Finally, she spoke. “Your father… he wasn’t the man you remember.”
I frowned.
“He wasn’t perfect, sure, but—”
“He was cheating, Jules.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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