No sacred object.
No mysterious heirloom.
Instead, I saw dozens of women’s belongings.
Neatly arranged.
A silver bracelet.
A pair of reading glasses.
A child’s tiny pink shoe.
Several wedding rings.
Handbags.
Old passports.
Photographs.
And a dusty wooden box.
My hands shook as I pulled the box toward me.
Inside were stacks of letters.
Every envelope carried a different woman’s name.
Each letter began the same way.
“If you’re reading this… he finally left you alone long enough to look.”
My chest tightened.
I opened another.
Then another.
Different handwriting.
Different dates.
