Two relationships.
College.
My first real job.
My pregnancy.
I had never opened it.
I knew what was inside.
Photographs.
Scarves.
Letters.
Fragments of a woman I missed too much to examine closely.
But that night, I lifted the lid.
Her perfume was long gone.
Still, for one impossible second, I imagined I could smell it.
I moved aside two scarves.
Then I found a photograph.
My hands began trembling before I even picked it up.
I was four years old.
