Charlotte stood frozen in my living room.
Her eyes moved from the walls to the photographs, then to the display case beside the fireplace.
She looked confused.
Overwhelmed.
Nervous.
“Sir,” she said quietly, “what is this?”
I smiled.
“It’s not what. It’s who.”
She frowned.
Then her eyes landed on a framed prom photo sitting on a shelf.
The color drained from her face.
She stepped closer.
Closer.
Then she picked it up with trembling hands.
A younger version of herself smiled back from the photograph.
Standing beside her was a heavy teenager in an ill-fitting tuxedo.
