Behind the framed photo of the three of us at Yellowstone, I found the safe.
Six digits.
I tried our anniversary. Lily's birthday. His mother's birthday. Nothing. My fingers shook. After three wrong tries, the keypad locked me out.
I barely had time to put everything back before Nathan came home.
That night, I brought him coffee while he worked, and I watched his fingers over his shoulder.
Six digits. I memorized them on the walk back down the hall.
"He isn't even Nathan."
****
The next afternoon, while he took Lily to the park, I opened it.
Inside were old photographs, letters tied with a rubber band, a worn diary, birth and adoption certificates, and thick court files.
The top certificate carried a name I'd never seen before.
Daniel.
I sat down on the floor of his office and said out loud, "He isn't even Nathan."
Diane was in her fifties.
