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We laughed as we flipped through the album. A few pages in was a photo of a chubby-cheeked, wild-haired Rafe standing barefoot in front of an art easel, wearing nothing but a diaper. I couldn’t help myself. I reached over and took the album from his hands for a better look. “You were painting in diapers?”

“Apparently, yes.”

I leaned closer. “And you were…good already?”

He looked mildly offended. “Why do you sound surprised?”

“Because at that age, most kids are trying to eat the paint, not become the next Van Gogh.”

I studied the picture. His blond curls stuck up in every direction, his tongue poked out one side of his mouth like it helped him concentrate, and he had a smear of red paint across one round cheek. “I love this so much.”

“My mother probably has that painting somewhere, too. She kept every piece of art I ever made.”

I smiled. “That’s what moms do.”

He turned the next page and went quiet. A man was sitting on the hood of a car, holding Rafe in his arms. They wore the same big smiles and were squinting into the sun.

“My dad,” he said.

I waited.

He stared down at the picture for a long moment before speaking again. “I told you he died in a car accident when I was four, but there are things I didn’t tell you.”

I took his hand, giving it a squeeze. “You don’t have to talk about it now, if you don’t want to.”

“I want to. I want you to know me. Maybe seeing the good, the bad, and the ugly will help explain some of the person I am today.”

My eyes watered. “Then I’d love to hear about him.”

“He and my mom were high school sweethearts. They got married at twenty.” Rafe looked down at our joined hands. “His name was Raphael. He always hated his full name, but my mom called him Rafe, and he loved that. So I’m just Rafe.”

I smiled. “Rafe suits you.”

“He was a woodworker. Designed furniture for a big company that mass produced what he built.”

“I guess you know where your creativity comes from.”

He nodded. “When he died in the accident, I was in the backseat.”

A chill rolled through me, and my hand lifted to cover my heart. “Oh my, Rafe. That’s horrible.”

“I don’t remember it.”

“Were you hurt?”

He lifted his arm and showed me a scar that had been tattooed over. “Just this. I think I needed something like forty stitches from the car seat cutting into me.” He took a deep breath. “My mom was lost after he died. And broke. She hadn’t worked since I was born and didn’t know what to do with herself. I think that’s one of the reasons she married my asshole stepfather so fast.”

“I’m sorry.”

He gave my hand a squeeze this time. “Yeah. Me too.”

There was nothing useful to say after that.

I thought Rafe might talk about his stepfather a bit, go into more detail about why they didn’t get along, but I supposed his father dying was enough trauma discussion for one day. Eventually he cleared his throat and turned the page. And for the next hour, Rafe walked me through the rest of the album like a tour of the early years of his life.

There was Rafe in a plastic kiddie pool. Rafe asleep on a dog twice his size. Rafe winning a ribbon at an art fair. Each photo gave me a piece of himself. We shared a second glass of wine, and Rafe got up to make dinner while I took a second pass at the album alone. When I finished again, I was still smiling.

“There weren’t any photos of you in your teenage years.”