A door I remembered.
Barely.
Because when I was young, I had been told never to open it.
My father had always said it contained electrical wiring.
But in the photograph, the door was slightly open.
And something was visible inside.
A child’s red bicycle.
I looked at Trevor.
“What is this?”
He sat down.
“Your father says that room wasn’t an electrical closet.”
“What was it?”
He didn’t answer.
“Trevor.”
“It was a bedroom.”
My skin prickled.
“What?”
“A hidden bedroom.”
I stared at the photograph.
He continued.
“Your father told me your mother had been hiding something from him.”
“What?”
“A child.”
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because my brain couldn’t process it.
“My mother had another child?”
Trevor shook his head.
“That’s what your father believed.”
I looked down at the photograph.
The little door.
The bicycle.
