“I would expect it,” I said, voice rough at the edges. “You have an impact on people, Tabitha. A very real one.”

Her lips curved shyly. “I appreciate that.”

She wiggled off my lap and settled back against the cushion. She kicked her legs up and draped them across mine. My eyes landed on her camera gear, spread across the table. It looked high end and well-loved at the same time.

“What made you first pick up a camera?” I asked.

She paused in the act of fixing her ponytail. “My mom.”

“Seriously?”

“I wish it wasn’t,” she said wryly. “But I first picked up my dad’s digital camera as an act of defiance. She was such a critical person and the beauty of self-expression was utterly lost on her. Alexis and I were only kids at the time—dancing, coloring, reading out loud.” Her nostrils flared. “She always pointed out every mistake and error. Every place where we’d made our own decision but she would have done it differently. It wasn’t like my sister and I were applying to fucking Juilliard. I’m talking about the simple joy of making things when you’re a kid.”

“Before you’re an adult and the world judges it,” I said.

“Yeah, or makes you feel like an imposter. I picked up my dad’s camera because I wanted to enjoy my own creativity without her influence. To follow a story idea or a voice or some random inspiration that popped up while walking home from school. To stretch out past the bounds of her control and her criticism.”

We could hear Alice and Eddie laughing outside, through the storm door. The sound turned Tabitha’s head. “Being behind a camera makes you pay attention to all the details that pass us by. Stories that need to be listened to. Nature that’s being stomped on. Love letters tucked into the flaps of old books. Street art the size of a quarter hidden in city alleys. It’s all there for us to see if we take the time to see it.”

I reached for her hand and held it. “I’m starting to see it now too.”

Her smile was dazzling.

I squeezed her fingers. “You talked about your mom in our support group, said she didn’t accept your identity. Did she ever change?”

Sadness quickly replaced the smile on her face. She didn’t hide it or cover it up with a joke. “No, she never did.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. I wrapped my arm across her legs and held her tight.