Chapter 23 - THE PHOTOGRAPH
At sixteen, Meadow found the original scalp photograph inside a legal archive folder I had forgotten to remove from a home-office box.
She stared at it.
I entered and froze.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I didn’t want you finding that alone.”
She held the photo.
“I look little.”
“You were.”
“I felt old.”
That sentence hurt.
She touched the image.
“Did you really crawl through my hair?”
“What?”
“Grandma’s carpet.”
I laughed softly.
“Yes.”
“I remember that.”
“I thought you barely remembered anything after.”
“I remember your hands.”
She looked at me.
“And your shirt.”
“Which shirt?”
“Blue.”
It had been blue.
She remembered gripping it.
“What do you want to do with the picture?”
“Do we need it?”
“Legal retention is over. Digital authenticated copies remain with court archives.”
“So we don’t need this?”
“No.”
She tore it in half.
Then stopped.
“Actually, can I keep the medical report?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it says I wasn’t imagining how scared I was.”
We kept the report.
Destroyed unnecessary duplicate photographs.
No family trauma museum.
May you like
The court record existed.
Truth did not need to hang on walls.
