I recognized him from the portrait in Alexander’s family home.
His father.
At the bottom of the photograph, someone had written a date from more than twenty years earlier.
And beneath it, in my mother’s familiar handwriting, were four words:
He promised to keep it secret.
Part 3 – The Photograph Between Us
I turned the photograph over, searching for another date, a name, anything that might explain my
mother’s words.
The back was blank.
I carried it to the window and held it against the pale afternoon light, as if some hidden writing might
appear when I looked closely enough.
Nothing did.
My mother had worked at the community clinic for years, first as a receptionist and later helping patients
find affordable care.
She had told me stories about that place, about the families who came in worried and left with a plan, but she had never mentioned Alexander’s father.
