What’s inside?” I asked, staring at the small metal box on my late husband’s attorney’s desk. Mr. Delgado slid a brass key toward me and said Frank had left instructions that I open it only after his death. Inside were letters tied with a faded green ribbon, old financial records, and a photograph taken in front of the house Frank and I had shared for eleven years. Frank stood beside his first wife, Linda. Between them was a younger woman I recognized immediately once I turned the photograph over and read the handwriting on the back: Patricia’s mother, June. 1987. I had spent more than a decade listening to Frank’s grown children imply that I married their father for that house. Now I was holding proof that my own mother had been connected to it decades before I ever met him.
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