The Letter Had This Week’s Postmark

the metal lockbox.

The broken padlock was still hanging by one twisted loop.

I took out the wedding photographs. The hospital bracelets. The anniversary necklace.

And the funeral program.

Her name in black ink.

The date.

The lies.

I carried it downstairs.

Sarah was asleep on the couch, one sock half off, TV glowing blue over her face. Maya had tucked a blanket continue reading …