Eventually I stopped asking.

I told myself the box was his way of grieving.

A small private thing.

If keeping two sleepers and a ridiculous orange-sized hat helped him accept that our family was complete, I could live with that.

Then, eleven years into our marriage, Marcus called me on a Tuesday afternoon.

I was cleaning the kitchen.

There was flour on my shirt because Sam, our four-year-old, had decided toast needed to be made with half the contents of the pantry.

My phone rang at 2:17.