“But why the lap?” I asked.
Mom closed her eyes.
That question seemed harder for her to answer than all the others.
“Because that was part of the act.”
I stared at her.
“What act?”
“The happy family act.”
Finally, her eyes met mine.
“Every time Daniel and I argued before relatives came over, he warned me not to embarrass him. Then, when everyone arrived, he would call me over and make me sit beside him—or on his lap—and smile for the photographs.”
A shiver ran through my body.
Mom’s voice dropped almost to a whisper.
“He would put his arm around me like he was the most loving father in the world and whisper, ‘Smile. Don’t ruin this.’”
Suddenly, the photograph we had just taken felt different.
Not because Grandpa had done anything to me.
But because I finally understood what Mom had seen when she looked at that picture.
She hadn’t seen me.
