In September 1895, in a quiet Victorian home in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, a professional photographer captured what appeared to be one of the most tender moments in family photography. A young boy, approximately 5 years old, leaning in to kiss his mother’s cheek. The mother sat in an elegant chair, her eyes open, looking toward the camera with a serene expression.
The boy’s small hand rested gently on her shoulder as he pressed his lips to her cheek in an innocent gesture of pure love. For 127 years, this photograph remained in the Wittman family’s possession, passed down through five generations as a treasured memory of maternal love and childhood innocence.
But in 2022, when the photograph was submitted for professional digital restoration, the specialist noticed something disturbing in the mother’s eyes. Something in her gaze, something in the complete stillness of her expression, something that had been invisible in the aged, deteriorated original, but became unmistakable once contrast and detail were restored.
Subscribe now because this photograph holds a secret that no one in the Wittman family knew for 127 years. And the truth will change everything you think you’re seeing. The photograph arrived at David Morrison’s restoration studio in Boston in January 2022. submitted by Rebecca Wittmann, a 38-year-old attorney who had inherited boxes of family photographs from her grandmother’s estate.
Rebecca wanted several important images professionally restored and digitized for family preservation. The 1895 photograph measured approximately 8x 10 in on heavy cardboard stock, typical of professional Victorian portrait photography. It showed a formal parlor setting with ornate wallpaper, heavy curtains, and elegant furniture.
In the center of the composition sat a woman approximately 28 to 30 years old in an upholstered Victorian chair with carved wooden arms. She wore an elegant dark dress with a high lace collar and ornate bodice detailing. Her chestnut hair was styled in the elaborate fashions of the 1890s, swept up with curls carefully arranged. Her posture was upright and formal, hands resting on the chair arms.
Most notably, the woman’s eyes were open, looking toward the camera. Her expression was serene, peaceful, with a slight softness around her mouth that could be interpreted as contentment. Beside her stood a young boy, perhaps five or six years old, wearing a formal dark suit with a white collar and small bow tie, typical of children’s formal wear in the 1890s.
The boy was leaning toward the woman, his face in profile as he kissed her cheek. His small hand rested affectionately on her shoulder. The boy’s expression, visible in profile, showed pure innocent love. the unself-conscious affection of a young child for his mother. The composition was professionally arranged and beautifully lit, clearly the work of an experienced portrait photographer.
Everything about the photograph suggested a special occasion, perhaps a birthday, a holiday, or simply a family investing in a professional portrait to capture a tender moment between mother and son. The photograph was severely damaged by 127 years of aging.
The image was heavily faded with much of the original contrast lost. Massive water stains in brown, yellow, and tan covered approximately 60% of the surface in irregular organic patterns. Multiple deep cracks cut through the photograph diagonally and horizontally. All four edges were torn and deteriorated with corners showing missing pieces.
The heavy sepia tone had turned the photograph a deep brown yellow color. The back of the photograph bore faded ink barely legible after more than a century. Thomas and Margaret, September 1895. Rebecca had included a note with her submission. This photograph is extremely precious to my family. It shows my great great grandmother Margaret Wittmann with her son Thomas, my greatgrandfather.
Thomas treasured this photograph his entire life. He said it was his most beloved possession because it was the only photograph he had of his mother. He kept it by his bedside until he died in 1968. I would love to have it restored so future generations can see this beautiful moment of love between them.
David Morrison, who had restored thousands of Victorian photographs during his 20 years in the business, began his standard process. highresolution scanning at 15,000 dpwong, followed by digital work to restore contrast, remove damage, and recover lost details that had faded over more than a century.
He started with the boy’s face, the innocent expression, the tender kiss, the gentle gesture beautifully preserved once the restoration brought back detail and clarity. Then David began working on Margaret’s face. And that’s when he noticed something deeply disturbing that would change everything about how this photograph should be understood.
As David enhanced the contrast and sharpness of Margaret’s face, he focused on her eyes, always the most important element in portrait restoration, the feature that brings a photograph to life. At first glance, in the faded original, Margaret’s eyes had simply appeared to be looking at the camera with a serene expression. But as David restored the detail and clarity, he noticed something profoundly wrong.
Margaret’s eyes had a completely fixed glassy quality. They appeared to be open and looking toward the camera, but there was absolutely no dimensional depth to them. No light reflection, no focus, no engagement with the camera or the scene, just a flat painted quality as if someone had painted eyes onto a surface rather than capturing living eyes through a lens.
The pupils showed no response to the lighting. In Victorian photography, even with long exposures, living subjects pupils would show some reaction to the studio lights, some variation in size, some reflection of the light source. Margaret’s pupils were perfectly uniform, unnaturally round, completely unresponsive.
The irises had an odd, slightly milky quality once the restoration revealed the true colors. Not the clear, vibrant quality of living eyes, but something clouded, something that suggested the beginning of post-mortem changes to the cornea that typically begin 2 to 3 hours after death. Most disturbing of all was the complete absence of any spark of life.
that ineffable quality that distinguishes photographs of living people from photographs of the deceased. Margaret’s eyes were open, positioned to appear as if she were looking at the camera, but there was absolutely nothing behind them, no consciousness, no awareness, no life. David had seen this before in his restoration work, though rarely.
It was a technique used in Victorian post-mortem photography. When the deceased’s eyes were open, photographers would carefully position the head, adjust the eyelids to create the appearance of looking at the camera, and hope the photograph would capture something that appeared lielike. Sometimes they would even paint directly onto the eyeballs to create the illusion of living eyes.
But close examination, especially with modern digital restoration, revealing details invisible to the naked eye in aged faded prints, always revealed the truth. The eyes of the deceased, no matter how carefully positioned and photographed, lacked the dimensional quality, the light response, the subtle moisture and movement of living eyes.
David zoomed out to examine Margaret’s full face again. Now that he knew what he was looking at, other signs became apparent. Her skin tone, despite the makeup and powder typically used in Victorian photography, showed a subtle but distinct palar once the true colors were restored. Not the healthy pink undertones of living skin, but something grayer, flatter.
Her facial muscles showed no tension whatsoever, not the active relaxation of a person sitting calmly, but the complete absence of muscle tone that follows death. The slight softness around her mouth that he’d initially interpreted as contentment was actually the beginning of rigor mortise affecting her jaw and facial muscles, carefully positioned by the photographer to appear as a peaceful expression.
and her posture, which he’d thought was simply formal Victorian stiffness, was actually the complete stillness of death. Her body positioned and supported to appear naturally seated, but without any of the tiny unconscious adjustments and shifts that living people make constantly, even when trying to hold perfectly still.
David sat back from his monitor, his stomach tight with the realization of what he was actually seeing in this photograph. Margaret Wittmann wasn’t alive in this photograph. She was already dead. And her 5-year-old son, Thomas, was kissing his dead mother’s cheek, completely unaware that she was gone. David contacted Rebecca Wittmann immediately.
The conversation was one of the most difficult he’d had in his 20 years of restoration work. “Rebecca, I need to talk to you about the photograph of Thomas and Margaret,” David began carefully. “Before I explain what I’ve discovered, can you tell me what you know about when this photograph was taken? Specifically, what do you know about Margaret’s death?” Rebecca’s voice was puzzled.
Well, I know Margaret died very young. She was only 28 or 29. I think she died in 1895, the same year this photograph was taken. Family stories say she died suddenly from some kind of illness. Thomas was very young when she died, maybe five or six years old. Why do you ask? David took a deep breath. Rebecca, I need to tell you something that’s going to be very difficult to hear.
Based on my analysis of the restored image, I believe Margaret was already deceased when this photograph was taken. There was a long silence on the line. Then Rebecca’s voice shaken. What? No, that’s not possible. Look at the photograph. Her eyes are open. She’s looking at the camera. Thomas is kissing her. How could she be dead? David explained what he had discovered.
The fixed glassy quality of the eyes with no dimensional depth or light response. The subtle pour of the skin tone invisible in the faded original, the complete absence of muscle tone, the unnaturally perfect stillness. He explained the Victorian practice of post-mortem photography, which was extremely common in the 1890s, especially when someone died young or suddenly.
Victorian photographers developed techniques for making the deceased appear alive in photographs, David continued gently. They would position the body carefully, arrange the clothing and hair, and sometimes position the eyes to appear open and looking at the camera. The goal wasn’t to deceive. Everyone present knew the person was deceased. It was about creating a final memorial image that showed them as they had been in life, not as a corpse.
Rebecca was silent, processing this information. finally she asked. But Thomas, he’s kissing her. He’s 5 years old. Did he know? That’s what makes this photograph particularly heartbreaking, David replied. I don’t know if Thomas understood.
Sometimes children were included in post-mortem photographs, specifically because their presence made the deceased appear more lifelike. Sometimes children were told their parent was sleeping or resting. Sometimes they knew but were told to kiss or touch the deceased for the photograph. Anyway, we may never know exactly what Thomas understood that day.
Rebecca asked David to send her the restored images showing the details he had discovered. Over the following weeks, Rebecca conducted intensive research into her family history, searching for census records, death certificates, newspaper obituaries, and any other documents that could confirm or provide context for David’s analysis. What Rebecca discovered in historical archives would not only confirm David’s conclusion, but reveal a far more heartbreaking story about why this particular photograph was taken, why Thomas was included, and what happened to the little boy afterward.
The photograph wasn’t just memorial photography. It was a desperate father’s final attempt to give his young son a moment of goodbye with his mother. and possibly the last moment Thomas would spend in the family home before his entire world changed forever. Margaret Wittmann had died on September 14th, 1895.
The photograph was taken on September 15th, 1895, approximately 18 to 24 hours after her death. And what Rebecca would discover about the circumstances would make this image even more tragic than anyone had imagined. Rebecca’s research into the Wittman family history revealed a cascade of tragedies that explained everything about the 1895 photograph and made it unbearably sad.
Margaret Wittmann, born Margaret Elizabeth Porter in 1867, married Jonathan Wittmann in 1888 when she was 21 years old. Jonathan was 25, working as a clerk in a Philadelphia shipping company. They had their first and only child, Thomas Jonathan Wittmann, in March 1890.
By all accounts from family letters and documents, Margaret and Jonathan were devoted to each other and adored their son Thomas. Jonathan’s income was modest but steady. They rented a small but respectable house in a workingclass neighborhood of Philadelphia. They attended church regularly. They had hopes for Thomas to receive an education and rise into the middle class.
In August 1895, Margaret fell ill with what was initially thought to be a summer cold. Within days, her condition deteriorated rapidly. A doctor was called, a significant expense for the family, and diagnosed typhoid fever, a common and often deadly disease in 1890s urban America before modern sanitation and antibiotics. Margaret fought the illness for two weeks.
Jonathan spent every penny he had on doctors and medicine. He stayed by her bedside. Thomas, age five, was kept away from his mother’s sick room, but could hear her suffering through the walls. On September 14th, 1895, Margaret died at age 28. The death certificate listed cause as typhoid fever, acute intestinal infection.
She died at home with Jonathan holding her hand. Jonathan was devastated, but he faced an immediate crisis. He was 32 years old. His wife had just died. He had a 5-year-old son. He worked long hours at the shipping company for barely enough to cover rent and fussed for three people.
He had spent all his savings on Margaret’s medical care. He had no family in Philadelphia. His parents were dead and his only sibling lived in California. Margaret’s family was in upstate New York, too far for easy travel or support. Most critically, Jonathan worked from dawn until evening, 6 days a week.
Who would care for Thomas while Jonathan worked? who would cook, clean, manage the household. In 1895, a working-class single father with no family support, had almost no options. Jonathan made arrangements quickly because he had no choice. Margaret’s sister, Helen, who lived in Albany, New York, agreed to take Thomas. Helen was married with two children of her own.
She had more stability, more resources. Thomas would have a home, education, proper care, but Helen couldn’t travel to Philadelphia immediately. She would arrive in 5 days to collect Thomas. Jonathan had 5 days with his son before Thomas left Philadelphia forever. 5 days before Thomas would be taken to live with relatives he barely knew.
300 miles away from everything he’d ever known. 5 days before father and son were separated permanently because Jonathan knew realistically that he couldn’t afford to visit Albany. And once Thomas was settled there, it would be nearly impossible to get him back. On September 15th, 1895, the day after Margaret’s death, and 3 days before her burial, Jonathan made a decision. He spent a significant portion of his remaining money.
money he desperately needed for food and rent on something that seemed to practical minds absurd. A professional photographer, Jonathan had Margaret’s body dressed in her best dress, her hair arranged beautifully, positioned carefully in their parlor chair.
He brought Thomas into the room and told him, “Say goodbye to Mama. Give her a kiss for the photograph.” What Jonathan Wittmann created on September 15th, 1895 wasn’t just a memorial photograph of his deceased wife. It was something far more complex and heartbreaking, a final gift to his son before they were separated forever. Thomas, at 5 years old, had limited understanding of death. He had been told his mother was very sick.
He had been kept away from her sick room during her final days. When Jonathan brought him to the parlor that morning, Thomas may not have fully understood that his mother was gone. Some accounts suggest Jonathan told Thomas that Margaret was resting and they were taking a special photograph. Other family letters hint that Thomas may have been told his mother had gone to sleep and they needed to say goodbye.
The exact words spoken that morning in September 1895 have been lost to time. What is certain is that Jonathan positioned Thomas beside his mother’s body and told him to kiss her cheek for the photographer. The photographer, whose name appears on the photograph’s backing as R Hammond, Memorial Photography, Philadelphia, was experienced in post-mortem photography.
He positioned Margaret’s body with care, arranged her dress and hair, and crucially positioned her eyes to appear open and looking toward the camera. This was done either by carefully positioning her eyelids or more likely by painting directly onto her eyeballs, a common Victorian post-mortem photography technique.
The goal was to create an image that showed Margaret as she had been in life, beautiful, serene, present, with her son showing her affection. Not a photograph of death, but a photograph of love that happened to be taken after death. For Jonathan, this photograph served multiple purposes. It was a memorial to Margaret, the woman he loved, the mother of his child.
It was the only photograph the family had ever been able to afford to have professionally taken. But most importantly, it was a gift to Thomas. Jonathan knew Thomas would be taken away in days. He knew Thomas would grow up 300 m away, raised by relatives. He knew Thomas’s memories of his mother would fade as he grew older.
The voice, the touch, the warmth would all become vague and dreamlike. But this photograph would remain concrete, physical, proof that Margaret had existed, that she had been beautiful and loved, that Thomas had been able to kiss her and hold her and be close to her one last time. Jonathan couldn’t keep his son. He couldn’t keep his wife.
He couldn’t keep his family together. But he could give Thomas this photograph, this evidence of love, this frozen moment where mother and son were still together, this memory preserved forever. On September 18th, 1895, Margaret was buried in Mount Peace Cemetery in Philadelphia. Jonathan had to borrow money to pay for the burial.
On September 20th, 1895, Margaret’s sister, Helen, arrived from Albany. Thomas left Philadelphia with Helen that same day. He took almost nothing with him. A few clothes, one toy, and the photograph of himself kissing his mother.
Jonathan remained in Philadelphia, working at the shipping company, living alone in a boarding house. He sent money to Helen when he could afford it, a few dollars here and there to contribute to Thomas’s care. He wrote letters to Thomas, though it’s unclear how many Thomas received or understood as a young child. Jonathan Wittmann died in 1903 at age 40 from pneumonia. He was buried in Mount Peace Cemetery beside his wife Margaret.
Thomas, aged 13, was notified of his father’s death three weeks after the burial. He never returned to Philadelphia. Thomas Jonathan Wittmann lived to age 78, dying in 1968 in Albany, New York, where he had spent most of his life after being taken there as a 5-year-old boy in 1895. Thomas was raised by his aunt Helen and her family. By all accounts, they were kind to him.
But Thomas always felt like an outsider. The orphaned cousin, the burden, the reminder of tragedy. He left school at 14 to work. He married at 22. He had three children. He worked in a factory for 40 years. He lived a quiet, unremarkable life. But according to his children and grandchildren, Thomas kept one possession with him always through every move, every change, every decade.
The 1895 photograph of himself kissing his mother. Thomas’s daughter Margaret, named for her grandmother, recalled in a 1985 interview, “Dad kept that photograph by his bedside every single day of his life. He told us it was his most precious possession. He said it was the only photograph he had of his mother and it reminded him that she had loved him.
He looked at it every night before sleeping. The question that haunted Rebecca Wittman’s research was, “Did Thomas know? Did Thomas know as a 5-year-old that his mother was dead when he kissed her for that photograph? Did he understand what he was doing? Or did he believe, as children often do, what the adults told him, that mama was sleeping, resting, about to wake up? Rebecca found a partial answer in a letter Thomas wrote to his own daughter, Margaret, in 1952.
The letter, discovered among Margaret’s belongings after her death, contained this passage. You asked me about the photograph I keep by my bed. That photograph was taken the day after my mother died. I was 5 years old. I don’t remember much from that day.
Just my father telling me to kiss mama goodbye and the bright lights from the photographers’s equipment and my mother’s cheek feeling cold. I didn’t understand death at that age. I thought she was sleeping. It wasn’t until years later when I was old enough to understand that I realized what that photograph actually showed. But by then it didn’t matter. That photograph is still my mother.
That kiss is still real. That love is still there. Dead or alive, she was my mother. And I loved her. And that moment, whatever I understood or didn’t understand, was the last time I ever touched her. The photograph of Thomas kissing Margaret was donated by Rebecca Wittman to the Philadelphia History Museum in 2023, along with the full documentation of the Wittman family story, Margaret’s death certificate, the photographers’s receipt, and Thomas’s letter.
The museum display includes David Morrison’s analysis of the post-mortem photography techniques used, historical context about Victorian memorial practices, and the Wittman family’s story of love, loss, and separation. The exhibit caption notes, “This photograph represents not just Victorian death practices, but the desperate lengths parents went to preserve love and memory in the face of unbearable loss.
” Jonathan Wittmann couldn’t keep his wife alive. He couldn’t keep his son with him. But he could give Thomas this photograph, this proof that Margaret had existed, that she had been loved. that Thomas had been able to say goodbye. Rebecca Wittmann visits the museum occasionally.
She stands before the photograph, her great great grandmother’s open but lifeless eyes, her greatgrandfather’s innocent kiss, the love frozen in that moment 127 years ago. People sometimes ask if I think it was wrong to include Thomas in a post-mortem photograph, Rebecca says. But I don’t think it was wrong. I think it was love. Desperate, heartbroken love, trying to preserve something, anything, before everything was lost.
Thomas treasured that photograph for 73 years after it was taken. It gave him comfort. It reminded him he had been loved. Isn’t that what matters? Sometimes a photograph captures exactly what it appears to show. A boy kissing his mother. Pure love, tender affection.
And sometimes it captures something far more complex. The moment after death, the last goodbye, the desperate preservation of love before separation. The truth doesn’t diminish the love. It deepens it. Because that kiss was real. That love was real. And 127 years later, both are still preserved in a photograph that refuses to let them be forgotten.
