My appendix ruptured at 2 a.m., and I called my parents seventeen times before the world began to blur. My mother finally texted back: “Your sister’s baby shower is tomorrow. We can’t leave now.”

Gerald was there, fixing a loose cabinet handle because he claimed my landlord’s repairs were “more decorative than structural.” He looked up from the screwdriver.

Richard saw him and nodded.

Their relationship had settled into something careful. Not friendship, exactly. Not rivalry. Something more fragile and complicated.

Two men standing on opposite sides of the same ruined bridge, both looking at me.

“What did you find?” I asked.

Richard placed the box on my table.

“It was in Eleanor’s closet. Behind the winter coats. A lockbox. My attorney had access to certain household documents because of the divorce inventory.”

He stopped.

His fingers rested on the box lid.

“I wasn’t sure whether to bring this to you.”

Gerald stood.

“That usually means you should.”

Richard gave a tired laugh.

“Probably.”

Inside the cardboard box was a smaller metal box, scratched and dull. Richard had already opened it. The lock hung broken.

He lifted the lid.

There were envelopes inside. Photographs. Old hospital documents. A baby bracelet with my name on it.

And a cassette tape.

I stared at it.

“Is that what I think it is?”

Richard nodded. “There was a recorder in the box too. I tested it before I came. It still plays.”