The photograph inside was gone, leaving only the dark velvet backing.

“He kept your childhood letters in this bottom drawer,” Victoria said without turning around.

“The little notes you wrote him from basic training.”

“I know,” I said.

“He never kept a single card Chloe wrote him,” she said.

Her voice had lost its usual razor edge and sounded small in the tall room.

“Not one.”

“Chloe was three when you married him,” I said.