“Move your fat ass,” Kristen says, bumping my hip.I roll my eyes as I scoot over on the carpeted floor of our apartment. “Oh my god, how long are you going to make fat jokes? I’m eight weeks. I’m not even showing, beyotch.”She strokes her chin, adopts a contemplative look. “Hmm. Let’s see. If my calculations are correct, I’m going to make jokes for the next seven months. Now, watch what happens when a pro with the camera takes the shot.”Kristen is a film major, and I’m not sure that means she ta...kes better cell phone pictures, but I’m just glad to have a partner in crime.Kristen centers her phone in her line of sight, and snaps a photo of one of the vintage cards. Our coffee table is littered with them.Kristen has been playing detective with me for a few days now. I started by Googling my father’s first name—John—and San Diego. But, big surprise, I wasn’t able to narrow it down. Then we stopped in a fancy stationery store in the Village and I showed the owner the cards, but she shrugged and said she had no clue where they were from.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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