I returned on a cold January morning.
Caroline came with me.
So did a locksmith.
The house smelled exactly the same.
Cedar.
Coffee.
The faint lavender polish our housekeeper used on the staircase.
I stood in the foyer and began shaking.
Caroline took my hand.
“We can leave.”
I looked upstairs.
“No.”
One step.
Then another.
The bedroom door was open.
The bed had been stripped.
Adrian’s clothes were gone.
His watches.
Shoes.
Books.
The silver frame containing our wedding photograph remained on the dresser.
I picked it up.
We looked beautiful.
That hurt.
People always imagine the worst relationships must look wrong in photographs.
Sometimes they look perfect.
Sometimes the woman is laughing because she was actually happy that day.
Sometimes the man has his hand around her waist because he loved the camera.
I opened the frame.
Removed the photograph.
Then stopped.
A memory surfaced.
Our first meeting.
