Three days later, I went looking for her will. That was when I found the box.
It was buried in the back of our bedroom closet, beneath winter coats, a stack of old photo albums, and the heavy silence that had been growing since the day Claire passed.
The box wasn’t labeled, but the tape along the edges looked newer than I expected. Claire must have sealed it herself, not long ago.
I expected to find an old anniversary card or a scribbled grocery list in her handwriting.
Something small.
Something familiar.
Instead, the first thing I saw when I opened the lid was a manila envelope. I opened it without thinking.
And my breath caught.
It was right there: Claire’s name, my name, and a judge’s intimidating signature.
And it was dated 21 years ago.
Mine was tight and uneven.
Claire’s handwriting was graceful. I traced her name with my finger, as if touching it might unlock the memory.
I blinked hard, as if my brain was trying to reset itself. There had to be some explanation, some memory I was missing.
But then again, there were a lot of things I couldn’t remember from that time.
The accident had left me in the hospital for weeks. I’d skidded off Route 5 during a sleet storm and slammed into the guardrail. Everything after that was fractured.
Claire never filled in more than I asked.
And maybe I hadn’t asked enough.Continue reading…
