I moved into my late dad’s house the day after we buried him. The place felt frozen in time — the same tools on the workbench, the same faded recliner, the same half-finished projects he always promised he’d get around to.

While sorting through his things one afternoon, I opened a photo album tucked behind some old manuals. I expected pictures of my childhood or old family vacations. Instead, what stared back at me were dozens of photos of teenage girls I had never seen before.