until we laughed again.
Elaine brought a small box.
“I found this at our house.”
Inside was a photograph.
David holding newborn Lily.
He was twenty-nine.
Exhausted.
Terrified.
Completely in love.
For several seconds, I couldn’t breathe.
“I’m sorry,” Elaine said quickly. “Maybe I shouldn’t have—”
“No.”
I touched the photograph.
“I’m glad you did.”
Because that version of David had existed.
That was another painful truth of grief.
David had loved Lily.
And he’d failed her.
Both were true.
Good memories couldn’t erase his final betrayal.
But that betrayal didn’t make every happy memory false.
I placed the photograph in Lily’s memory box.
Not because I wanted David back.
But because he’d been part of her life.
Accepting that distinction brought peace.
After everyone departed, I carried the cake plates into the kitchen.
My phone charged beside the sink.
For years, that device had controlled my emotions.
Would David
