I found the box three days after Claire was gone.
I wasn’t searching for secrets. I was trying to locate documents. The kind of things a person needs after a loss: wills, insurance papers, account details, anything that helps you keep life from unraveling at the seams. I opened closets. I checked drawers. I looked behind photo albums and old winter coats.
The box was tucked deep in the back of our bedroom closet, sealed with newer tape. That small detail rattled me. It meant it hadn’t been there for decades. It meant Claire had handled it not so long ago.
Inside were envelopes stacked carefully, as if she had arranged them with purpose.
The divorce decree was the first one.
The second envelope held a birth certificate.
I stared at it until my eyes blurred, because it made even less sense than the first document.
A child’s name. A date. Claire listed as the mother.
No father named.
The birthdate was years before Claire and I married.
I sat in the stillness of our bedroom, trying to fit this new information into the life I remembered. Claire had a child before me. A daughter I had never heard of. A daughter whose name had never been spoken in our home, even once.
I didn’t know what hurt more: the shock, the confusion, or the realization that my wife had carried an entire hidden chapter without letting it touch the life we built together.
I pressed my palm against my forehead, willing my thoughts to slow down.
Had I known and forgotten?
Had I been part of a decision and lost it to time?
Or had Claire kept it all to herself?
