He looked toward the basement door.
“Please.”
Fifteen years I’d been married to this man.
Mark rarely asked permission for anything.
I pointed toward the door.
He disappeared downstairs.
Two minutes later, he returned carrying a large plastic storage bin.
My stomach tightened.
I recognized it.
We’d packed it during the divorce.
“OLD PHOTOS” was written across the lid.
Mark set it on the kitchen floor and sat beside it.
“Zoe, come here.”
Zoe went pale.
“Dad. Don’t.”
His hand stopped on the lid.
“Why not?”
“Just don’t.”
“Zoe.”
She stared at the box.
Then she said, “I already know what’s in there.”
Mark looked at me.
“What?”
“I’ve seen them.”
“When?”
“September.”
“Why were you going through our old pictures?”
“I was looking for Halloween decorations.”
“And after that?”
Zoe said nothing.
Mark’s expression changed.
“How many times have you opened this box?”
She stared at the floor.
“Zoe?”
“I don’t know. A lot.”
Mark opened the box.
Photographs filled it.
Hundreds.
Our entire failed marriage in four-by-six rectangles.
Me at 19 beside Mark’s first car.
Me asleep on a bus.
Our wedding.
Me eight months pregnant in a green dress.
Mark picked up that photograph.
“Come here.”
Zoe reluctantly sat beside him.
