The third, the original marital home in Chicago, had remained empty for years, used only occasionally for meetings and storage.

I couldn’t decide what to do with it.

It contained the memories of my young marriage and none of the life that followed.

When June turned eight, I finally walked through it again.

The kitchen countertops were unchanged.

The windowsill still bore a faint water mark from a plant I had once forgotten to move.

In the hall closet hung an old scarf I thought I’d lost.

Warren had accompanied me because I asked him to help identify several boxes of documents left from his career.