I walked into my company party and found my husband’s arm wrapped around a coworker’s waist, and then, in front of everyone, he told me I had never been anything more than his housekeeper.

“I’m not joking, kiddo.”

Kiddo.

He had called me that at barbecues for ten years, and I had always assumed it was because of his age.

David reached into the inside pocket of his charcoal suit.

He took out a small, soft envelope, worn white at the corners, as if it had been opened and closed a thousand times.

From it he slid a piece of paper.

Half of a photograph.

He held it up in the candlelight, and his hand shook so badly that the paper trembled.

“Marie Kowalski,” he said. “Cedar Point, Sandusky, August of 1979. I was twenty. She sold funnel cake on the midway, and she laughed at everything I said, even when it wasn’t funny.”

The room had gone so still I could hear the ice settling in someone’s glass.

“I believe you carry the other half, Laura.”

My purse was on the chair.

I don’t remember opening it.