There were plastic bins, photo albums, and one garment bag hanging from a hook. The smell of dust and old paper rushed out at me.
I stepped inside and reached for the closest box. It was lighter than I expected.
Inside were photographs.
My husband was in them.
…my knees nearly gave out.
He looked younger, but it was him.
He had the smile, posture, and his hands were in his pockets the same way he still stood when he waited for me outside grocery stores.
And he wasn’t alone.
There was a woman with him. The timestamps on the photos made my heart thud hard against my ribs.
They were taken before I ever met him.
…he wasn’t alone.
I sank onto a plastic bin and kept going.
I found wedding invitations with their names, a lease agreement with both of their signatures, and even cards addressed to “Mark and Elaine.”
Then I found the death certificate. It was Elaine’s.
The cause of death was listed in careful, official words that didn’t explain anything at all.
“No,” I whispered at this life I never knew about. “No, no, no.”
I didn’t cry, not then.
It was Elaine’s.
I packed the photos back with shaking hands and found a letter addressed to Elaine from a woman named Susan, who shared the deceased’s last name.
I knew I had to find out who she was and what she knew.
I closed the unit, locked it, and tracked Susan’s address.
Then I sat in my car and stared at the steering wheel until my fingers cramped.
…shared the deceased’s last name.
When I got to Susan’s house, an hour away, I was shocked to see how shabby and rundown it looked!
Although I wasn’t sure what Susan’s relation to Elaine was, the letters made it clear they were close.
So I pretended to be a journalist working on a piece about unresolved deaths.
It felt disgusting, but it worked.
When Susan opened the door, she was cautious and suspicious, but tired in a way I recognized.
Then, behind her, I saw something that almost knocked the breath out of me.
It felt disgusting…
The boy looked about eight years old and had Mark’s eyes.
My breath caught, and I had to grip the doorway to steady myself.
Susan watched me carefully.
“You said this was about Elaine, my sister.”
“It is,” I said, forcing my voice to stay calm as I realized who Susan was. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
She laughed without humor. “People say that, but they don’t mean it.”
“I do,” I said.
Susan watched me carefully.
Seeing how genuine and drained I seemed, Susan led me inside.
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