I want to sit for a moment on how ordinary the finding was, because I think it matters.

There was no premonition, no dramatic hunch, none of the crackling instinct people imagine precedes a discovery like this.

I was not searching.

I had no reason to search.

After eleven years I had made a certain peace with my marriage — a small, gray, resigned peace, the kind you make when you have decided that the thing you have is the thing you will have, and that wanting more of it only sharpens the ache.

I dusted the shelves.