“Send it to Claire.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because when I went back last night, the storage unit was empty.”
I stared at him.
For the first time since the divorce, Anthony looked not angry, not entitled, not ashamed.
Afraid.
Outside, a bus sighed against the curb. Somewhere near the counter, a barista called a name twice. Life continued with offensive normalcy.
Then Anthony reached into his coat and placed something small on the table.
A brass key.
A faded paper tag hung from it, marked in my father’s handwriting.
M.V. — before wedding.
My throat tightened.
“Where did you get that?”
“It was taped inside the storage file,” Anthony said. “I think your father left it for you.”
I picked up the key.
On the other side of the tag, beneath a smear of age-yellowed tape, were four words I had not seen until the light struck them.
Not if. When.
