Chapter 26 - The first photograph
Near the three-year mark, Dr. Ellison asked me:
“What would contact have to look like for you to consider it?”
I almost answered:
Never.
Then stopped.
Never might be correct.
But I wanted it to be a decision, not a reflex.
Lily was now three years and nine months old by the source timeline.
Healthy.
Loud.
Fast.
No chronic neck injury.
No neurological damage.
No meaningful memory of the kennel in narrative form, though early fear patterns had required treatment.
She knew Diane only through photographs and occasional adult references.
“Grandma Diane?”
“Yes.”
“Your mommy?”
“Yes.”
“Was she naughty?”
Children.
I said:
“She did unsafe things.”
“Like running street?”
“Different unsafe.”
Dr. Ellison recommended no direct contact simply because an anniversary approached.
Good.
No reconciliation deadline.
Diane asked whether she could send one photograph of herself with a short message.
I allowed the photograph.
No message.
I showed Lily.
“That’s Grandma Diane.”
Lily looked.
“She has your nose.”
Rude.
“Yes.”
“Can I color her?”
“No.”
She walked away.
No emotional thunder.
A photograph.
May you like
Just information.
That was where we left it.
