Theo was removing the wooden letters from the bedroom wall when he found the photograph.
A baby stared up from it, one fist pressed against his cheek.
Beneath the letters was a small wooden star.
He turned toward his mother.
“Who’s Mason?”
She stopped in the doorway, carrying a tray of brushes.
His stepfather, Andre, stood behind her.
For years, this had been the room nobody used. Now they were turning it into a study before Theo started college.
His mother set down the tray.
“He was your brother.”
Theo looked at the photograph again.
“You told me you only had me.”
“I said you were my only child.”
“That’s the same thing.”
She sat on the bare mattress.
Mason had lived for eleven weeks. Theo had been three when he died.
His mother had packed away the toys, closed the room, and answered fewer questions each year until Theo stopped asking.
“I thought you’d forgotten.”
“I did forget.”
The hurt in his voice surprised them both.
Andre quietly brought in another chair.
Theo sat opposite his mother.
“What was he like?”
She looked at the little star.
“He hated being put down. Your singing helped.”
“My singing?”
“You only knew half of one song. We heard it constantly.”
For the first time, she smiled.
They left the painting until the next day.
Instead, they opened the boxes from the wardrobe. A blanket. Hospital bracelets. A tiny cardigan Theo didn’t remember choosing.
Weeks later, the room became a study.
The letters came down, but the wooden star stayed.
Beside it, Theo placed the photograph in a small frame.
His mother paused at the doorway when she saw it.
“Are you sure?”
Theo adjusted the frame.
“You can come in whenever you want.”
That evening, she brought two mugs of tea.
She stayed long enough to tell him another story.
End of Narrative.
