It’s a picture of my father and her, dancing at a wedding—I don’t know whose. My father is spinning her around, her hand up-stretched and his arm the axis. My mother’s head is thrown back. She’s laughing, her skirt flared around her legs like a bloom around the stem of a flower. My father is staring at her like he’s never seen anything more captivating. He’s grinning like the luckiest man in the world. “Freya said he kept it in his desk, face-up in the top drawer, so he’d see it whenever he—” “Yes,” my mother says softly. “I remember.” She can’t take her eyes off my father’s face. I know she
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