I’d brought a cheap camera that I barely knew how to operate, and my hand was trembling around it.
In my wallet, tucked behind an expired insurance card and a food receipt, I had kept Daniel’s original note. It had faded with time, but I could still read it.
I’d brought a cheap camera.
I unfolded it carefully with both hands.
I couldn’t stop wondering whether the girls would bring up Daniel that day. Even worse, I wondered whether they’d wish he were there instead.
I folded the note again and walked into the heat. The auditorium carried the smell of floor polish and cheap perfume. I took a seat seven rows back, resting the camera against my bad knee as I tried to steady my hands. I’d waited 22 years for that morning, yet I still felt like I was about to drop a bottle of milk.
