Inside it was an ultrasound photo, and a letter.

Your name was written on the front, Alex.

In my handwriting.

Your name.”

He stood there, the cold forgotten, trying to absorb it.

He had never received any envelope.

He had never gotten any calls.

In his version of the last six years, Elena had simply vanished, had accepted the divorce and disappeared, had never once tried to reach him, which had confirmed, conveniently, everything he had told himself about their parting being mutual and clean.