Well, were in color. In those first days of color photography, the materials were primitive. These prints aren’t even in direct sunlight, but their colors have faded. Looking ahead, the color deepens as the materials improve. But the transition is an interesting one from mono- to polychromatic.

“Poor you,” Joy wails. Having deposited her bag on the stair, she is pointing at 1982. “Anne’s the baby in Papa’s arms, and there you are, stuck on the ground, holding onto your mother’s leg. You don’t look happy.”

I study the shot. Margo, tall at age four, stands between my parents. Her back was as ramrod straight then as now. Anne is cuddling into Dad, the wisps of dark hair on her one-year-old head buried against his throat. And yes, there I am at age two beside Mom. No, not happy. Her hand around my shoulder isn’t enough. I want to be held.

“And this one,” Joy effuses, pointing at the picture taken two years later. I was four, still with Mom’s hand on my shoulder, but facing front, chin raised, more confident. Or is that chin-tilt defiance? Or resignation? Whatever, Anne was on her feet but leaning into Dad’s side much as she had snuggled in infancy. Margo still stood straight between them.

“If you’re the middle child, why aren’t you in the middle?” Joy asks.

“It just started this way and stayed this way.” I wave at the photos up the line. “We always took the same spots.”

“Just took them?”

“We were placed at first, then it became habit.”

“Who placed you?”

“Mom—Dad—I don’t remember.” I’m trying to, when Joy follows up with a question that opens a whole other door.

“Who took the photos?”

“Elizabeth.”

“That Elizabeth? Was she a photographer?”

“No, but since she lived next door, it was easy. We had a cookout together every Fourth of July. Her taking our family shot became a tradition.”

“Was she related to Papa?”

“No.”

“But they built houses here at the same time.”

“Coincidence,” I say, though I’ve never been sure. Margo insists that Dad and Elizabeth were lovers who decided to marry other people and came to regret it. But that’s Margo. Me, I’ll grant that they knew each other, liked each other, even loved each other once, but after they married others, that was done. I never wanted to think that Dad would cheat on Mom. Or that Mom would put up with it.

I mean, seriously, what husband would keep a lover living right next door? What wife wouldn’t suspect and object? What daughter wouldn’t be able to figure it out?

Me. For all the times I felt there was an answer just out of my reach, I could never wrap my fingers around it and pull it clear.