I picked up one of the photographs. Dad stood beneath a spotlight, his long hair falling past his shoulders, a guitar strapped across his chest. He was grinning at the crowd as if the entire world belonged to him.
I’d never seen him look that happy.
Then I found a photograph of Mom.
She stood beside him, looking up at him with a smile I’d almost forgotten. Dad was playing his guitar, and the way he looked at her made my chest tighten. For a moment, I remembered our old living room, Mom singing along while Dad played, and the two of them laughing whenever I tried to join in with my toy guitar.
Those memories had been buried for so long that I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed them.
I sank into Dad’s chair and cried until Frank had to hold me upright.
