Douglas’s mother.
She looked pale but awake, her hair brushed neatly around her face. Beside her stood a younger Douglas, thinner than the boy I remembered, his hand resting on the bedrail.
On the back of the photograph, someone had written a date.
November 1986.
I looked at Douglas.
“Why do you have this?”
“My mother gave it to me before she died.”
He swallowed.
“She told me that she had lied to you.”
The photograph slipped slightly in my hand.
“Your mother?”
“She was the one who wrote the letter.”
I stopped breathing.
Douglas’s voice grew thinner, but he continued.
“She believed I would destroy my life if I came back for you. She thought you were the reason I had left home in the first place. She knew I had loved you since high school, and she was afraid that if I chose you, I would never forgive her for needing me.”
