I try to get ready for bed. I brush my teeth and get a glass of water. I put an animal documentary on television, hoping it will lull my nerves. But I can’t settle into the pullout. I can’t stop thinking about the look she shot me as they were leaving, a look that implied I was solely responsible for this evening’s drama. Gary is innocent. She is innocent. But I—I am not to be trusted. It makes me want to scream. The fact that she can turn so quickly and that it can impact me against my will fills me with trapped rage.

I jump up, pacing the floor. I want to damage her like she has damaged me. I stomp to her room and look around. The bed is unmade. I try not to think about what took place in here between them. I turn away and my eyes fall on her dresser, the pictures. I see my own sitting there and before I know it, it’s in my hands. They are shaking, and my own face trembles back at me. I turn the frame over and quickly open the back, ready to pull the picture out and rip it to shreds. She can’t have me like this without my permission. But when I go to pull the photo from inside, another smaller picture tucked behind it falls out and lands facedown on the floor.

I stoop to pick it up and turn it over. It’s a polaroid photo from one of those instant cameras that snapped less-than-perfect shots and printed them straightaway. The lighting is bad, and the image is fuzzy, but it’s clear enough. It’s a baby. She’s in someone’s arms, and it takes me a moment to recognize my mother because she’s so much younger and thinner. Her hair is falling across her face as she looks down, but I can tell it’s her by the color, the part, the set of her jaw, and the shape of her hands.