A slip of paper with the name of a divorce attorney.

And a sealed envelope from a fertility specialist in Boston.

“My late wife spent years being blamed for something that was never her fault,” he said.

He didn’t elaborate, not then, but the sentence had a weight to it, the weight of a thing carried a long time.

“It taught me to never trust the loudest person in a marriage.”

I looked at the three objects and could not make them add up.