My mother’s gown possessed the lavender hues and delicate ruffles she favored. Where she was painted pale and lithe, my father bore the freckled complexion and muscled frame of a seafaring Irishman. He looked so young. So in love. His face tilted downward, smiling upon my mother as if utterly distracted by her, the painter’s presence forgotten. My mother’s pose on the bench was relaxed yet stately, her eyes pointed at her lap. “Look at that, Bennett.” Ashley hovered on my other side, his finger motioning at the spot I’d just discovered. My mother’s hands surrounded a small bump on her lap, the
...more
