I paced.
“Chloe?”
My daughter wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Chloe, where did you get that?”
She shook her head.
“Don’t ask how I got it.” Her voice cracked. “You need to see what he hides in here. And why he never stays past 7:30 p.m.”
She walked past me and set the tote down on the dining room table, right next to the birthday pie.
Mom rose slowly from her chair.
“Where did you get that?”
“Chloe, honey, whatever’s in there, maybe we should…”
Mom’s hands trembled as she reached for the bag. I stepped closer, bracing myself for lipstick, hotel receipts, some other woman’s photo. Basically, something ugly.
The tote fell open.
Mom’s hand flew to her mouth.
“Oh, my God!”
Mom’s hands trembled.
I looked inside.
There were old family photos, worn soft at the edges. A little wooden music box with its paint faded. A stack of laminated cards with large print and pictures of everyday things: a spoon, a comb, and a smiling face labeled “son.”
