I stared at her.
She continued.
“His face will be in every single frame.”
Daniel went still.
“You’ll be looking at that for 40 years. I don’t want those photographs.”
The room changed.
That’s the only way I can explain it.
Nothing moved.
But everything changed.
I set my glass down.
Very carefully.
I had several things ready, and I was going to say every one of them, in her dining room, in front of her son.
That’s my brother.
Say his name.
Say what you mean while I’m sitting here.
Tell me exactly what part of his face ruins your photographs.
Tell me whether you think Down syndrome is contagious through an album.
Tell me whether you understand that my father is dead.
Tell me why you think your mantel gets a vote in my wedding.
