At thanksgiving, my father-in-law told my son to eat in the kitchen because ‘disabled kids make guests uncomfortable.’ my husband said nothing, just passed the gravy. my son looked up at me, confused. i stood up, pulled out his chair myself, and left...

Adela's question echoed in my mind all evening.

That night, while Colton was putting Asa to bed, I walked down into our basement and opened a box of old family photo albums Colton had inherited years ago. I flipped through yellowed pages of Prescott family reunions from the 1980s and 1990s.

Then I found it: a wide pan-shot photo from a 1987 summer gathering at the Prescott estate. Dozens of relatives stood on the manicured lawn in color-coordinated summer outfits.

Standing on the far left edge of the photograph, almost clipped out of the frame, was a young boy of about eight. He was sitting in a vintage, heavy steel wheelchair, his hand resting in the lap of an older woman.

I had seen this photo a hundred times on the hallway wall at Foster's house, but the edge had always been covered by a thick wooden frame.

I remembered Colton telling me years ago about an uncle or cousin the family "didn't really talk to anymore."

I picked up my phone and dialed Colton’s Aunt Clara—the family black sheep who had moved to Vermont twenty years ago and rarely attended Prescott gatherings.

When Clara answered, I skipped the pleasantries and described the photo. "Clara, who was the boy in the wheelchair on the edge of the 1987 reunion photo?"

The line went dead silent. For nearly ten seconds, all I could hear was Clara's heavy breathing.