“What are you thinking about, Grandma?”
“Nothing, sweetheart.”
But by the time I reached the road leading toward my house, I had already driven past it.
I turned around.
And headed directly to Emma’s home.
When I pulled into the driveway, I saw the garage window glowing red.
Whatever they were hiding was inside.
I got Noah out of the car.
Before I could knock, Emma opened the back door.
Noah immediately announced,
“Grandma came to see the garage.”
Emma looked at me.
“Mom, I was actually going to—”
Too late.
I was already walking past her.
The red glow came from small decorative lights strung across one wall.
Underneath them were photographs.
Some framed.
Others clipped along pieces of twine.
At first, I didn’t understand what I was seeing.
Then I recognized the young woman in the pictures.
Me.
Decades younger.
Sunburned.
Laughing.
Looking as though life had never hurt me yet.
Relief came first.
There was no emergency.
No crime.
No reason Noah should have mentioned the police.
It was just some elaborate birthday display.
Then I noticed the camera sitting on the workbench.
Small.
Dark.
Old.
A faded sticker clung crookedly to one side.
My hand started toward it.
Then stopped.
I knew that camera.
For forty years, I had told people I lost it.
I had repeated that story so many times that even I had almost stopped questioning it.
Seeing the camera again made that old explanation suddenly feel fragile.
“Where did you get this?”
Emma stepped into the garage behind me.
“I found it at a flea market.”
I stared at her.
“The man selling it was getting rid of old things after retirement,” she continued. “I remembered you talking about the camera you lost.”
“You bought it?”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
Emma hesitated.
“He told me there was undeveloped film inside.”
My stomach tightened.
“So you developed it.”
She nodded.
“I thought you’d want to see the photographs.”
I looked at the wall.
“You developed film from my old camera, printed the pictures, and displayed them without asking me?”
Emma’s smile disappeared.
“You always sounded sad when you talked about losing it.”
“I said I lost it.”
The words came out sharper than I intended.
Emma went quiet.
There were parts of my past I had spent decades packaging into neat little stories.
This was one of them.
I didn’t appreciate seeing it ripped open and decorated with string lights.
