Strangely, I appreciated that honesty more than comfort.

“She also loved you,” she added. “She said you were the only man who ever made her feel safe enough to become better — and then she spent too many years ashamed of the parts of herself she’d hidden from you.”

Behind the lamp on the side table sat a small wooden box. I recognized it at once. I’d built that box in high-school shop class — walnut, rough joints, a lid that never sat quite straight.

I gave it to Helen the first summer we dated, with a note inside that read for everything we’ll keep. I hadn’t seen it in decades. I’d assumed it vanished during a move, or was thrown out in one of Helen’s cleaning sprees.

Carol noticed where I was looking. “She kept it here. She told me you made it for her when you both still believed forever was simple.”

I opened the box. Inside were letters. Dozens of them. Every one addressed to me, in Helen’s slanted, precise hand. The one on top was dated two weeks before she died.