You turn the next page and look at the pictures. They are all of you as a baby. You've had it ever since you can remember. You turn the page. One of the pictures is of you on a tricycle and a woman beside you. She has her head turned away from the camera. You are positive this is your mother, she has the same pitch black hair as you - minus the silver streaks. You reach your hand over to turn to the last page, the page that must have a picture with your mother facing the camera, and stop. Your hand shakes ever so slightly. You close the album quickly and put it on the shelf above your bed. You have had that photo album for as long as you can remember, and for as long as you can remember you've never been able to bring yourself to turn that one page.
"It's not like she's ever given me a reason to want to know," you tell the album.
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