My husband.
Our wedding.
The walls looked strangely empty without them.
I entered the living room.
Harper had replaced the photos on my mantel with ultrasound pictures and professionally styled maternity photographs of herself.
Then I saw my wedding picture.
It had been shoved onto a low bookshelf behind gift boxes.
For one moment, that hurt more than anything else she had done.
The photograph wasn’t valuable to anyone but me.
My husband was smiling in it, young and nervous, with his hand at my waist.
That picture belonged in
