One night when we weren’t doing anything, Edith brought out a photo album.
“Here,” she said. “The two of you should see this.” She placed it in Rachel’s lap. We were sitting on the chairs in front of the fire.
Rachel opened the book. I slid closer to look over her shoulder.
The first few pages showed a happy couple with cute baby girl. The father was very dapper, in a European sort of way. I could tell the woman was Mother. She was a very handsome woman when she was that age. Both Rachel and I looked like her. The pictures showed a very happy family.
As we turned the pages, Rachel could only say, “I don’t remember this,” or “I don’t know where this was taken.”
She’d explain where some of them were taken, but she had no idea when or why they were photographed.
I couldn’t identify the
