“He practiced this?”
“Every day for three weeks.”
She turned the page.
Then another.
And another.
Eventually, she reached the photograph from his speech.
Nathan at the altar.
The paper in his hands.
Me crying beside Daniel.
She stayed on that page for a long time.
Finally, Margaret closed the album.
She rested both palms against the cover.
Then she asked quietly, “Can I get a copy of that photograph?”
I knew exactly which one.
Nathan giving his speech.
“Yes,” I said.
That was all.
No confrontation.
No dramatic confession.
No apology.
For a while, I thought perhaps I wanted one.
I thought I needed her to admit what she had said.
To tell me she had been wrong.
But strangely, after seeing her with that album, I realized I didn’t need the words anymore.
A few weeks later, Daniel sent me a photograph from his parents’ house.
I opened the message and stared at my phone.
