Ben dragged the old suitcase from beneath his parents’ bed.
He was looking for winter blankets.
Instead, he found a college jacket.
Inside its pocket was a photograph of his mother standing beside a smiling young man who wore the same jacket.
His stepfather, David, appeared in the doorway.
Ben held up the picture.
“Is that my dad?”
His mother came in behind him.
“Yes.”
For years, she had said there were no photographs left.
Ben’s father had died when he was small. The few stories he knew were practical: where he worked, what car he drove, how old he had been.
The man in the photograph looked nothing like a collection of facts.
He looked funny. Careless. Alive.
“Why was this hidden?”
His mother sat on the edge of the bed.
“I packed it away when we moved.”
“That was nine years ago.”
“I know.”
Ben turned to David.
“Did you know?”
“Yes.”
“Did it bother you?”
David pulled out a chair.
“The suitcase never bothered me. Knowing you didn’t have it did.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought it was your mother’s decision.”
Ben looked between them.
“And when did it become mine?”
His mother opened the suitcase fully.
There were letters, another album, and a cassette marked with his father’s name.
They found an old player the next weekend.
The recording began with music, then his father’s voice complaining that nobody had told him the microphone was on.
Ben laughed before he could stop himself.
His mother started crying.
David stayed beside them.
Later, Ben hung the jacket on the back of his bedroom door.
It was too large for him.
At breakfast, David asked whether he wanted help putting up a shelf for the albums.
Ben nodded.
“Above the desk.”
They measured the space together.
End of Narrative
