That was the conversation on the porch steps — the one that had left her sitting alone in the dark, no closer to an answer. She didn’t let it go. The next evening, while Mark was out picking up dry cleaning for the rehearsal dinner, she found Tim in his room and sat on the edge of his bed. “You said I wouldn’t believe you,” she said. “Try me.”
He hesitated so long she thought he might refuse again. Then he got up, crossed to his desk, and opened the bottom drawer, pulling out an old photograph worn soft at the corners, like it had been handled many times. “This is my mom,” he said, holding it out. “The real one. Not the one Dad showed you.”
Julia frowned, confused. “What do you mean, not the real one?” “That photo he showed you — that wasn’t her. I don’t know who that was. But this is her.” His hand shook slightly. “Look at it. Just look.” Julia took the photograph, still not understanding, bracing for something she couldn’t name.