I remembered the wedding album.
I glanced at the clock. My husband wouldn’t be home for a while, and I had taken leave for this.
I walked down the hall toward his study, feeling almost giddy, the kind of small, conspiratorial joy you only get when you’re planning something for someone you love.
The memory of that shut drawer flickered through my mind as I reached the desk, but I pushed it aside. It was our anniversary. Whatever he kept in there, it couldn’t outweigh five years of us.
I had taken leave for this.
I pulled open the bottom drawer, expecting the familiar white leather of our wedding album.
That wasn’t what I found.
The bottom drawer stuck at first, as if it hadn’t been opened in a long time. I tugged harder, and it slid open with a soft scrape.
No wedding album.
I frowned and dug through the papers on top. Old tax returns, a warranty booklet, a folder of receipts. Nothing that looked remotely like our photos.
