I had the fortress.

She had the home.

I had spent thirteen years and everything I possessed to end up standing in a locked room full of props, and she had spent the same thirteen years, with nothing, building the only kind of wealth that had ever been worth having.

I opened the wall safe behind the oil painting and reached past the bonds and the emergency cash to the very back, and pulled out a small cedar box I had not let myself open in years.

Inside were a handful of faded photographs.