He was the kind of man who listened more than he spoke.
After my father left, Morgan gradually disappeared from our lives.
I assumed their friendship had simply ended.
When my mother mentioned seeing him in her photography class, I was surprised.
“Morgan? Dad’s old business partner?”
“Yes.”
“What is he doing in a photography class?”
“Trying to learn how to use a camera, apparently.”
She smiled.
“He spent ten minutes trying to photograph a flower and couldn’t understand why everything behind it was blurry.”
I laughed.
Over the next few months, they became friends.
Morgan never treated my mother as though she were fragile. He didn’t pretend not to notice her scars, but he never made them the center of a conversation.
When she wanted to practice outdoor portraits, he accompanied her.
When she wanted to work alone, he respected that.
When she complained that her camera was too heavy, he offered to help carry it.
