“Home.”
“What are we supposed to do?”
I looked at the scratched photograph.
“I don’t know.”
Then I looked at him. “That’s the point.”
Six weeks later, Dad called me after dinner.
He sounded nervous.
“I saw Helen tonight.”
I smiled.
“At the restaurant?”
“No.”
That mattered.
“Where?”
“Somewhere new.”
A month after that, I returned to the Italian restaurant.
The old photograph was still on the wall.
Helen’s face was still scratched away.
I asked the waitress why they hadn’t replaced it.
She handed me a clean copy Dad had brought that morning.
Same night.
Same people.
Helen stood beside Mom, laughing.
Dad stood on Mom’s other side.
Three young people who had no idea how complicated love would become.
I placed the clean photograph beside the damaged one.
I left them both there.
Some things shouldn’t be erased just because they hurt.
But they shouldn’t be the only version left hanging on the wall.
