Owen spoke without turning around.
“My mother died last year.”
His voice cracked on the final word.
I looked at him, suddenly seeing the grief beneath the careful manners and controlled movements.
“Before she died, she gave me Marjorie’s name,” he added. “She told me not to contact her.”
“But you did,” I said.
“Yes.”
Marjorie reached toward him. “And I thank God for that every day.”
I stared at the closed curtains, the empty walls, and the spotless shelves.
“What happened to the photographs?”
Owen finally faced me.
“They were Ruth’s.”
Marjorie nodded. “I had kept every photograph I could find. School pictures, newspaper clippings, even a copy of her wedding announcement. Owen found them.”
“He thought I had been watching his mother from a distance,” she said. “He thought I had chosen silence.”
“I did think that,” Owen admitted.
The anger in his voice was directed inward now.
