I picked up one photograph.
Dad and Evan were standing beside a half-restored motorcycle.
“You built this together?”
Evan nodded.
“Took forever.”
Another photo showed Dad sitting in a folding chair at what appeared to be a graduation ceremony.
“Community college,” Evan said quietly.
There were more.
Dad and Evan painting an apartment.
Eating takeout on the floor.
Laughing together.
Then I found the photograph that destroyed whatever denial I had left.
Dad and Evan were standing behind a heavy wooden workbench.
Both of them were grinning.
Dad looked happy.
Not trapped.
Not uncomfortable.
Happy.
“How long did you work on this?” I asked.
“About four months.”
“Thursdays?”
“Mostly.”
I touched the edge of the picture.
“He built me a desk when I was twelve.”
Evan smiled sadly.
“That sounds like him.”
I almost cried.
Instead, I asked the only question that mattered.
“Why didn’t he tell us?”
Evan’s smile disappeared.
“He was going to.”
Mara turned sharply toward him.
“Evan.”
“What?”
“You didn’t tell me that.”
He looked between us.
“Six months ago, Dad said he was done hiding it.”
My heart began pounding.
“When?”
“Next month. He’d picked a Sunday when he knew you and your mom would both be home.”
Evan disappeared into another room.
When he returned, he was holding two sealed envelopes.
One said *Linda*.
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