Was this my husband’s lover?
“Because you deserved to hear it from a person, not from paperwork.”
He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.
My hands turned cold. I gripped the edge of the table, bracing for the worst.
What he set down was not what I’d anticipated.
It was a small square of faded paper, its edges soft from decades of handling. He slid it across the linen toward me.
I looked down.
He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.
Every drop of blood drained from my face.
I’d seen that photograph before, but I hadn’t laid eyes on it in three decades.
My voice barely came out.
“How…” I whispered. “How do you have this?”
A blue satin dress. A boy in a rented tuxedo. A gymnasium banner blurred behind us.
My prom photo.
I’d seen that photograph before.
“That’s me,” he said, tapping the boy in the tuxedo. “I’m Peter.”
