At that moment, I leaned against him, my fingers clutching his hand as if it were my only lifeline, the camera capturing the rare connection between us.
We were both fragile, two broken souls bound by time and circumstance.
Cohen sat stiffly in his wheelchair, his expression as cold as stone. Meanwhile, tears clung to my cheeks, but I forced a crooked smile, the kind that barely touched the surface.
It was the first smile I had managed since the day my world fell apart.
Looking at the photo, at the young versions of Cohen and me, I couldn’t help but think “pitiful.” The innocence of that moment felt like a distant dream, a faint echo of something that could never be again.
But that photo was one of my most cherished possessions. Over the years, Cohen had made it clear that no pictures of the two of us would remain. Yet this one, taken when I was still a child, caught in a family portrait, he had reluctantly allowed me to keep.
Time had yellowed the edges of the photo, its fragility mirroring our own. Now, the glass frame lay shattered, the image trampled beneath it.
With what little strength I had left, I knelt and picked up the photo, clutching it to my chest as if it could somehow restore everything that had been lost.
3
The baby was lost.
When I woke, my first thought was of the child. The doctor, noticing my immediate concern, looked taken aback before answering, “You’re still so young. What’s the rush?”
She sighed, her voice tinged with something like disappointment. “My daughter is two years older than you and still in school. Why the hurry to get pregnant?”
I didn’t want this. I hadn’t asked for it.
When I first found out I was pregnant, it was like being a child caught in a mistake, terrified and lost in the consequences.
That day, Imogen was hosting her welcome-back banquet, and I had arrived late due to the checkup. I never expected that the results from my afternoon visit would end up in Cohen’s hands that very night.
“Mine?”
His voice was cold and unreadable, a mixture of restrained anger or suspicion swirling beneath the surface.
Imogen, standing beside him, looked radiant in her bright dress, almost mocking. She took the results from his hand and teased, “Is it yours? Weren’t you in Canada last month, surfing with me?”