At home, I opened the cabinet above the refrigerator and pulled out the small red box where I kept our old tax returns.

It was dusty.

Inside were envelopes marked by year, mixed with recipes, expired coupons, and photographs of Trevor as a child.

I worked through the pile with a pen and notebook, separating what I knew from what I guessed.

At the bottom was an unopened holiday card from Roger’s mother, who had died six years earlier.

Inside she’d written, “Marriage isn’t about who gets the last word.

It’s about who helps wash the dishes afterward.”