Today a few of the two dozen family photo albums made the move from old house to new. When a matched set labeled "France" surfaced from their long exile in a garage cabinet, I couldn't resist cracking them open. 1985. Paris. The Loire Valley. Bretagne. Normandy. The vacation that yielded our first daughter. I flipped through the pictures not really giving a damn. It occurred to me that I could, right at that moment, toss the damn things into the trash. I love France, but I don't need a bunch of old photos taken by Mr. Ex to remind me of that.
In the end I put the albums in a box in my new garage. C can have a look. If she wants a bunch of pictures of her dad in a beret, she can have them. As for me, the only photo I want out of the bunch is this one. I loved the ocean even then.