There was not one picture of Dany.
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Once, while searching for a utility bill Mom claimed she had never received, I found a photograph of my son tucked inside a kitchen drawer behind an electric bill.
It was a picture I had given her the previous Christmas.
Dany was smiling in a green sweater, holding a paper snowflake he had made at preschool.
The photo was not damaged.
It simply had not been considered worthy of display.
At the time, I told myself Mom had forgotten it.
I had spent years translating deliberate choices into accidents because the truth felt too painful.
Chelsea was treasured.
I was relied on.
Those were never the same thing.
Still, I would not punish my father’s failing body for my mother’s cruelty.
Dad had not laughed at the barbecue.
He had been inside resting and probably did not even know what happened.
