A month after Mom passed, I went back to the house to pack up.

In the corner of her closet, buried under a pile of shoes, was a box within a box.

Inside were dozens of aged, black-and-white photos of my mother with a man I didn’t know. There were no letters, no notes on the backs of the photos, nothing to indicate who they were of or when they were from.

I wondered: Did my father know she was happy once?

This is a reprint of work originally published in Thin Air Magazine.

Brian Burmeister teaches writing and communication at Iowa State University. His written work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. He can be followed on Twitter: @bdburmeister.

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