I spoke to her out loud, even though the room was empty.
“I don’t know how to do this without you,” I admitted.
My voice cracked.
“But I’ll try.”
I looked toward the chair where she used to sit.
“I’ll make you proud.”
There was no answer.
I hadn’t expected one.
Still, I stayed there for a while.
I told myself that the worst was behind me.
The grief would eventually settle.
I would learn how to live inside these quiet rooms.
I would learn how to look at the photographs without feeling like my chest was being crushed.
I would learn how to live with the golden picture of the woman I had married.
I truly believed that.
Then, just as I was beginning to accept the shape of my loss, a firm knock sounded at the front door.
I slowly got to my feet.
I had no idea that the man standing on the other side was carrying something that would shatter the beautiful version of my memories I had been desperately trying to hold on to.
The lawyer stood on my porch with a leather case tucked beneath his arm.
He was an older man with tired eyes and a careful voice.
“Mr. Anderson,” he said. “I’m Emily’s attorney. May I come in?”
I nodded and stepped aside.
My legs felt hollow as I led him into the living room.
He placed the leather case down and removed a sealed box wrapped in brown paper.
“There is something you don’t know,” he said.
I stared at him.
“Emily left this for you.”
He paused.
“She made me promise that I wouldn’t give it to you until after she was gone.”
My eyes went immediately to the box.
“Why?”
The question came out sharper than I intended.
“Why would she keep something from me?”
The lawyer shook his head.
“I don’t know what’s inside. She only asked me to honor her wishes.”
He looked at the box.
“And I always keep my promises to my clients.”
He stood slowly and buttoned his coat.
“I’m sorry for your loss. She was a remarkable woman.”
Then he left.
And I was alone.
Again.
Except this time, there was a sealed box sitting on my knees.
My hands shook as I tore away the brown paper.
Inside, I found a thick envelope filled with cash.
Beside it was a stack of documents held together with a rubber band.
I stared at them.
Then I saw what was underneath.
A letter.
Emily’s handwriting.
My heart began beating faster.
I unfolded the paper.
And I began to read.
“My love, if you’re reading this, then I’ve run out of time to tell you myself.”
I stopped.
I read the sentence again.
Then the next line.
“And I’m a coward for that.”
My stomach tightened.
I continued reading.
Years earlier, at Emily’s old job, money had gone missing from the company’s accounts.
