Miguel.
You stared at it until your vision thinned.
It was an older picture of him, younger by maybe ten years, standing beside the woman from the license. His arm was around her waist. Her head leaned against his shoulder. Both of them were smiling into sun so bright it washed the edges of the print.
On the back, in neat handwriting, were five words.
Flagstaff, our first weekend away.
The room seemed to tilt.
You sat there on the floor with the purse in your lap and suddenly understood two things at once. The first was that the smell had never been accidental. The second was that you did not know your husband at all.
You forced yourself to open the bundle of papers.
They were letters.
Dozens of them, some inside envelopes, some loose, all addressed in different variations of the same two names: Miguel and Elena. Bills. Printouts. Handwritten notes. A lease application. Medical forms. Greeting cards. A copy of a marriage certificate.
