Rain.
The final image was simply an empty bed.
I closed the folder.
Daniel wiped his eyes.
“She hated me hovering over her.”
I didn’t respond.
“I told myself I was helping.”
He looked at me.
“I was scared.”
“You’ve spent seventeen years being scared.”
“Yes.”
“And you made it my responsibility.”
He flinched.
I had never spoken to him that way.
But once the sentence was out, I knew it was true.
“You never told me why you touched my stomach every night. You just said it helped you sleep.”
“It did.”
“Because you were checking whether I was dying.”
His eyes closed.
“That sounds terrible.”
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
“No.”
Silence settled between us.
Finally I asked, “Why the photographs now?”
“Because I noticed a change.”
“When?”
“July.”
Three months.
Exactly as he’d said.
“At first I thought you were gaining weight.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
