Unknown number.
I answered quickly. “Hello?”
“Mr. Hale?” a woman asked. “This is Marissa Venn from Calder & Lowe. I represent your wife, Lauren Hale.”
My throat tightened. “Yes.”
“I’m calling to confirm you received her written request.”
“I did.”
“Good. Mrs. Hale has agreed to a brief mediated conversation tomorrow afternoon at two. It will be virtual. I’ll send details to your email.”
“Can I ask how she is?”
There was a pause. “She is safe and receiving care.”
“Is she with her mother?”
“I’m not authorized to disclose her location.”
“Please,” I said before I could stop myself. “I just need to know if she’s all right.”
The attorney’s voice remained professional, but not unkind. “Mr. Hale, Mrs. Hale anticipated you might ask that. She asked me to tell you this: ‘I am not alone.’”
I closed my eyes.
I am not alone.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“There is another matter,” Marissa said. “Mrs. Hale requested that you bring any documents related to the May insurance disbursement to tomorrow’s meeting.”
Shame tightened around my ribs.
“Yes,” I said. “I understand.”
“Do you have those records?”
“Some.”
“Please gather all of them.”
The call ended a minute later.
I stood in the storage unit, surrounded by the life Lauren had asked me to remember, and understood that tomorrow would not be about winning her back. It would not be about explaining my pain well enough to reduce hers.
It would be about telling the truth without asking it to save me.
I repacked the box exactly as I had found it, except for one thing.
The onesie.
I held it for a long moment, then placed it back carefully. It did not belong in my pocket like a souvenir of grief. It belonged where Lauren had chosen to keep it.
Before closing the unit, I noticed something behind the table.
A narrow wooden crate, half hidden beneath a folded quilt.
It was not labeled.
I knew I should leave it alone.
Lauren had told me what to look at. Nothing more.
But the crate had been placed differently from the others, angled as if someone had moved it recently and not pushed it back.
I pulled the quilt aside.
Inside were several sealed envelopes, each labeled with a year.
And beneath them, a slim medical folder.
My name was written on the tab.
Not Lauren’s.
Mine.
For a moment, I only stared at it.
Then, slowly, I opened the folder.
The first page was a lab report from a fertility clinic.
