I knew it had. I dusted that dresser every Thursday.
The next morning, Mark left for work at six-forty, like always. He kissed my cheek at the kitchen counter. Quick. His eyes didn’t quite meet mine.
“Love you,” he said.
“Love you too.”
As soon as I heard his truck back out of the driveway, I went upstairs.
I stood in front of his dresser. My heart was beating so hard it made my ears ring.
You’re being crazy, I told myself. You’re fifty-one years old. You’re standing in your bedroom in your bathrobe, about to go through your husband’s sock drawer like some woman on a daytime talk show.
I opened the drawer anyway.
The wooden box was right where it always was. In the back left corner, behind his rolled-up socks.
I lifted the lid.
His wedding ring was inside. Gold, simple, a little scratched. You could see the faint seam on the bottom of the band where the jeweler had soldered it back together.
