For most of my childhood, I had learned not to talk about him.
My mother couldn’t bear it.
I couldn’t either.
So eventually, we stopped saying his name.
We stopped telling stories.
We stopped talking about the things he used to do.
It was easier that way.
Or at least, that’s what I had believed.
Ben looked at the photograph again.
“Your mother gave this to me a long time ago.”
“Why?”
He took a breath.
“After Adam died, your mom was devastated. She was trying to hold everything together, but she was worried about you.”
He looked at me.
“She asked me to keep an eye on you.”
I stared at him.
“You were driving an ice cream truck?”
He smiled faintly.
“My uncle owned one. I used to help him during the summers and drive through this neighborhood.”
Then the memory came back.
Not all at once.
