“Stop you from doing what?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, my husband reached underneath the bed and pulled out his beat-up duffel bag.
He dug through a folded flannel shirt until he found an envelope.
It was worn at the corners.
It looked like it had been carried around for a long time.
My stomach turned.
“What is this?”
“I want you to open it,” he said. “But before you do, I need you to know something.”
“Okay?”
“I love you. Whatever you think this is in the next ten seconds, remember that first.”
That did not make me feel better.
People said things like that before destroying someone’s world.
I took the envelope.
It was heavier than an ordinary letter.
My thumb slid beneath the flap, then stopped.
