My cousin stood under the bright lights of the library stage, smiling as he took credit for ten years of my life.
For a decade, I was the family historian. I poured my heart into saving our past—scanning every faded photo and recording every story before it was lost forever.
He always called it my “cute little hobby.” Just a little something for me to do to pass the time.
Then he took it all. Every file, every memory. He slapped his name on it, published a glossy book, and went on tour as some kind of brilliant author.
He stole all my research, but he made one critical mistake: he didn’t realize my real files weren’t on a hard drive, they were in the stories only I knew, and I was about to ask him a question he couldn’t answer.
The Weight of a Ghost: The Sanctity of the Scan
The hum of the scanner is the closest thing I have to a mantra. It’s a low, steady thrum that vibrates through the old oak desk, a sound that says progress, preservation, permanence. My husband, Tom, calls this room my “command center,” which is his gentle, science-teacher way of calling it cluttered. He isn’t wrong. Stacks of acid-free archival boxes line one wall, each labeled in my neatest print: Miller Line, 1900-1940, O’Connell, Pre-Ellis Island.
On the scanner bed right now is a photograph of my great-aunt Clara. She’s maybe sixteen in the picture, with defiant eyes and a smile that seems to know a secret the photographer isn’t in on. For eighty years, she was just a name in a family bible, a footnote. But after six months of chasing her through census records and cross-referencing ship manifests, I found her. I found her story. She didn’t just fade away; she ran off with a traveling musician and lived a life of her own choosing. A scandal then, a triumph now.
I lean in, adjusting the settings on the screen. 1200 DPI. TIFF format. No compression. Her story deserves to be saved in the highest quality possible. This isn’t just data entry; it’s a resurrection. Each click of the mouse, each whir of the scanner, is an act of devotion. I’m pulling these people out of the silent, dusty past and giving them a voice again.
Tom pokes his head in, a mug of tea in his hand. “Still communing with the dead, Gracie?” he asks, his smile soft.
“They’re not dead if you remember them,” I say without looking up. “And Clara was a rock star.”
He just chuckles and leaves the tea on the coaster beside me. He thinks it’s a cute hobby, this decade-long obsession of mine. He supports it the way you support a spouse who takes up marathon running or competitive baking. You don’t quite get it, but you cheer from the sidelines. But it’s not a hobby. It’s my life’s work.
The Architect of Opportunity
The doorbell rings just as I’m saving Clara’s file, and I know without looking who it is. Only one person in the family drops by unannounced, armed with a blindingly white smile and the easy confidence of someone who has never once had to wait for anything.
My cousin, Mark.
He breezes in, smelling of expensive cologne and ambition. He’s my aunt’s youngest, a slick forty-year-old who works in “brand strategy,” whatever that means. Today it means slim-fit jeans and a blazer that probably cost more than my computer. He gives me an air-kiss near my cheek.
“Gracie! Looking good,” he says, his eyes already scanning my command center. He leans against the doorframe, a posture of casual appraisal. “Wow. Still playing with all these old pictures? It’s amazing, the time you have.”
There it is. The gentle, smiling dismissal. Not “this is incredible work,” but “it’s amazing you have the spare time for this.” As if my life is a vast, empty plain and this is just how I choose to kill the hours before I die.
“It’s important work,” I say, my voice flatter than I intend.
“Oh, totally, totally. It’s… it’s a really cute hobby,” he says, patting the doorframe. He wanders over to my desk, picking up a framed tintype of a severe-looking man. “Who’s this sourpuss?”
“That’s Great-Grandpa Thomas,” I say. “He built a timber business from nothing after coming over from Ireland with ten dollars in his pocket.”
Mark just nods, his attention already drifting. His eyes land on the external hard drive sitting next to my monitor. It’s a five-terabyte monster, my entire digital archive. Ten years of scanning, researching, interviewing, and writing. Ten years of my life.
“You know,” he says, his voice suddenly shifting, becoming conspiratorial and sincere. “You should really have a backup of all this. What if this thing fails? It would be a tragedy.”
I stare at him. Is he… is he actually showing interest? “I have a cloud backup,” I say. “And Tom keeps another drive at the bank.”
“Smart. But you can never be too careful,” he says, tapping the hard drive. “Family should have a copy, too. For safekeeping. I’d be happy to hold onto one for you. Think of me as an off-site server.” He winks.
The offer, coming from him, is so unexpected that it short-circuits my skepticism. Maybe he finally gets it. Maybe he finally sees the value in what I’m doing. A flicker of hope ignites in my chest. Sharing it with him would feel like finally being seen.
“Really, Mark?”
“Absolutely,” he says, his smile wide and reassuring. “It’s our history, right? We’ve all got to protect it.”
About the Author
