PART 9 — The photo album in the attic
After lunch, Emma stood up to clear the table. I offered to help, but she shook her head. “No, stay seated. Daan has to leave for his guitar lesson in a moment.” The boy grabbed his jacket, greeted us both with a casual wave of his hand, and disappeared out the door. The click of the lock echoed through the small living room. Then Emma walked to the cabinet in the corner of the room and pulled out a thick, dusty photo album bound in dark blue velvet.
She laid it on the table right in front of me. “I took this with me when I left back then,” she said without looking up. “From that house. The only thing I really wanted to bring.” My breath caught. I hardly dared touch the album. With trembling fingers I opened the cover. On the first pages I saw Emma as a baby, smiling in a stroller, then on a bicycle with training wheels, and on her tenth birthday with a cake full of candles.
And then... the photos of her teenage years began. Photos I had almost forgotten. Pictures of a girl with dreams, with long blonde hair and a smile that could light up a whole room. And then the photos suddenly stopped. The pages after that were blank. White, virgin paper. For twenty years, not a single photo. No birthdays, no graduation, no photo of Daan as a baby in this album.
“The rest is blank,” Emma said softly as she sat down opposite me. “Because you weren't there to take them.” The words struck like an axe. I put my hand over my mouth to suppress a sob. I deserved this. Every blank page was a silent reproach, proof of my own cowardice. “But,” Emma continued, her voice suddenly growing much firmer, “Daan does have an album.
There are hundreds of them on his phone. And if you want... you can be a part of it again starting today.” I looked up, tears streaming freely down my cheeks. “Do you mean that?” Emma nodded slowly. She placed her hand on mine. Her skin was warmer than mine, firmer, full of life. “Not everything can be fixed, Mom. We can’t turn back time. But we can move forward.” And at that moment, sitting there together over that old photo album, I realized the empty chair at my home table didn't have to remain empty anymore.
