I put the photographs on the table between us, spreading them.
Danny at ten in the school photo.
Danny at fifteen at a birthday party, laughing at something outside the frame with his whole body, the way he laughed.
Danny and me at my high school graduation, him standing beside me with the specific pride of a younger sibling at an older sibling’s milestone, his hand on my arm.
Danny and Marcus at what I recognized as a football game, both of them in team colors, both of them in mid-sentence to each other about something.
Danny at thirty, outside the movie theater where he worked, in his uniform, smiling the smile that was fully Danny, the one that contained no reservation.
Leo looked at each photograph.
“He looks happy,” Leo said.
“He was happy,” I said. “Genuinely. Not because his life was easy. Because he was himself, completely, and he was surrounded by people who knew that was enough.”
