I once sat down on the couch and looked around the room. There above the television was a photograph taken of all the kids of the household. My step-mother and my father’s family. I was at college when the time came for the photo to be taken. They took it without me. This was how every day in that house made me feel. This is our family. You are not part of it.
I once got a senior photo taken. I was nervous around my father. He yelled a lot, often at me, generally for no reason at all. I wanted him to show, just once, how much he loved me. Just one tangible bit of proof that he thought about me fondly once in a while. I handed it to him with his morning coffee at the living room table, my hands trembling in hopes of being acknowledged. He didn’t say much beyond the usual “It looks nice” politeness. Two days later I found the photo again. It had a coffee ring over my face.
I hate photographs.