Sifting through the remnants of my father’s recently extinguished life.
Books, papers, and storm-coloured photos.
One catches my eye. A mother. A father. A sleeping baby. Family.
On the back in a loopy scrawl: Tatjana, Brett and baby Alex.
One hand flies to my mouth to stifle the cry.
The photo drops to the floor.
‘Alex? What’s wrong?’
My vision blurs. Lies etched in cold marble – ‘Tatjana Smith. Died in childbirth.’
I never met my mother. This photo can’t exist.
The sky groans with the knowledge of suppressed secrets.