One quiet day in the woods, I went target shooting. Settling behind a fallen log, I snapped a picture to share with my husband—just me, enjoying the outdoors, rifle in hand, sunlight streaming through the trees.
I sent it, expecting him to be impressed by my aim and the peaceful setting.
“Whose hat is that?” he asked.
I glanced at the picture, confused. “It’s mine,” I said, pointing to the white cowboy hat next to me.
“No, it’s not,” he replied sharply. “You’ve never had a hat like that. That’s his hat.”
His words hit hard. I knew exactly what he meant. And worse, the hat looked almost identical to one he’d given me years ago, one I thought I’d gotten rid of.
I tried to explain that it was just a random hat I grabbed before heading out, but he didn’t buy it. To him, it wasn’t a coincidence—it was a sign I was holding onto something from the past. And the fact I had taken the picture wearing it made him feel like the past was creeping into the present.
Despite my insistence that it was unintentional, the damage was done. That image—me, with that hat—was all he needed to convince himself something wasn’t right.