Inside was the photo album from my childhood, the one that still made my chest ache when I flipped through it.
I turned pages slowly. My sister and I in matching pajamas. My parents smiling at a picnic. Me holding a science fair ribbon, beaming.
There had been love in those moments. I wasn’t imagining it.
But love, I realized, isn’t just what happens in the good snapshots. Love is what happens when things get hard. When someone disappoints you. When you don’t get what you want.
That’s where my family failed me.
They didn’t just hurt my feelings. They tried to take my future. When I refused, they tried to punish me. When punishment didn’t work, they tried crime. When crime backfired, they called it regret.
A softer knock sounded at the doorframe. Julian leaned against it, watching me.
“You okay?” he asked.
I held up the album slightly. “Just thinking,” I said.
He stepped in and sat beside me, shoulder against mine.
“About them?” he guessed.
“Yeah,” I admitted. “And about us. About how… different it can be.”
Julian glanced at the pictures. “You know,” he said gently, “you’re allowed to keep the good memories without inviting the bad behavior back in.”