Then Erin pulled out an old photograph.
A much younger Brad stood beside a worktable.
His hair was long.
And he had the worst mustache I had ever seen.
For one moment, I forgot everything else.
“Brad.”
He saw where I was looking.
“That mustache represents a dark period in my life.”
Molly stretched onto her toes.
“I like it.”
Brad pointed at her.
“You’re officially out of my will.”
She grinned.
Then my attention moved lower in the photograph.
Brad’s sleeve was rolled up.
Erin sat beside him, concentrating while a licensed instructor supervised.
The sunflower was fresh.
Crooked from its very first moment.
Brad had never corrected it.
Never covered it.
Never removed it.
He had preserved it exactly as Erin had created it.
Then Erin showed me another photograph.
Brad was there too.
This time, a man was giving him a small geometric tattoo near his elbow.
