I knew every drawer.
Or thought I did.
“What does it look like?”
“Cream-colored envelope. Sealed. Fairly thick.”
Robert had been a careful man.
He labeled everything.
Tax records.
Appliance warranties.
Insurance.
Photographs.
He did not write my name on things without a reason.
“Did my children see it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Please leave it where it is.”
“I already did.”
After we hung up, I stared toward the hallway.
Robert had been dead twenty-two months.
For twenty-two months, I had believed the house contained memories and nothing more.
Now, suddenly, there was something waiting inside it.
Something he had meant specifically for me.
That evening, Gregory called.
Unlike Brenda, he began with an apology.
At least I thought he did.
“Mom, I should’ve said something this morning.”
I waited.
“I knew Brenda was being harsh.”
“You knew more than that.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
