At the bottom of the box, wrapped in a scrap of velvet fabric, he found a silver bracelet. It was his seventh wedding anniversary gift to Michelle. He’d saved for months to buy it, choosing each charm carefully. The silver book charm represented her teaching, the chef’s hat for their restaurants, and a heart for love. Michelle had worn it constantly during their final years together, before everything had fallen apart.
Paul lifted the bracelet, feeling its weight against his palm. The charms caught the overhead light, glinting with the same brightness he remembered.
A folded card sat beneath the velvet. Karen’s handwriting was shakier than the address on the box had been.
Paul,
I found these while sorting through Michelle’s things. I thought you might want them, especially the photos. She looked so happy in some of these.
The bracelet was in her jewelry box. I know you gave it to her. She told me once that she’d wanted to return it after the divorce, but she couldn’t bear to let it go. I think she would want you to have it now.
Thank you for coming to the memorial service. It meant a great deal.
Karen
Paul set the note down, his vision blurring. He picked up another photograph. This one showed Michelle standing in front of a classroom, with students gathered around her desk. She was laughing at something one of them had said, her entire face lit with joy.
This was the Michelle who’d existed after him. The one who’d rebuilt her life, found love again, taught hundreds of students, and created a home filled with dinner parties and fresh garden vegetables. The Michelle who’d made peace with their shared past.
The back door opened again, and this time Susan stepped through, carrying her equipment bag and wearing the apron she’d embroidered with small herbs along the hem.
“Sorry I’m late. I had to—” She stopped mid-sentence, her gaze moving from Paul’s face to the scattered photographs on the counter. “What happened?”
“Karen, Michelle’s sister, sent me a package.” The words came out rougher than he had intended. Paul gestured at the collection spread across his workspace. “She found some of Michelle’s things.”
Susan set her bag down carefully and moved closer. She didn’t touch him, didn’t crowd into his space, but her presence was steady beside him. “Do you want to talk about it, or would you rather work?”
Paul appreciated that she’d given him the choice. He picked up the garden journal, running his thumb along its spine. “Michelle kept notes on everything she planted. She drew diagrams of where each tomato variety went, what worked and what didn’t.”
Susan leaned in to see the careful sketches, the annotations in Michelle’s precise script. “She had an engineer’s mind.”
“She did.” Paul flipped to a page showing a sketch of rose bushes with notes about pruning schedules. “I used to tease her about it. She couldn’t just plant a garden, she had to design and document every detail.”
“That sounds like someone else I know.” Susan’s tone was gentle, almost teasing.
Paul managed a small smile. “I learned my organizational habits from her. Before we met, I was chaos in the kitchen. She showed me how systems could free you up to be creative instead of constantly putting out fires.”
He set the journal down and picked up the wedding photo, the one showing him and Michelle cutting their cake. It was a simple three-tier vanilla creation that Michelle’s aunt had made. “We were so young. We were convinced we had everything figured out.”
“Most of us did when we were younger.” Susan studied the photo. “You both look happy.”
“We were. For a while.” Paul returned the photo to the pile and reached for the bracelet. The charms clinked softly against each other. “I gave Michelle this on our seventh wedding anniversary. She wore it each day until Sophie died. I thought she must have lost it.”
Susan’s intake of breath was barely audible.
Paul held the bracelet up to the light, watching the heart charm spin. “I don’t know what to do with it.”
“You don’t have to decide today.” Susan touched his arm briefly. “Or tomorrow. Or next month.”
Paul closed his fingers around the bracelet, feeling the metal warm against his skin. With a sigh, he carefully wrapped it in the velvet cloth and placed it in the box with the other items. “I should put these away before we start prepping. The kitchen is no place for memories.”
“Memories belong everywhere.” Susan moved toward her equipment bag, giving him space. “But I understand you wanting to protect them.”
While Susan washed her hands, Paul carried the box to his small office off the kitchen. He set it on the shelf above his desk, next to the framed photo of his grandmother, and an award his first restaurant had won. It was like a timeline of all the important times in his life. The ones he was proud of and the ones he’d learned to forgive.
When he returned to the kitchen, Susan had already laid out the ingredients with military precision. Butter was softening in measured portions, the herbs were washed and waiting, and the cream was warming gently on the back burner.
“Ready?” she asked, glancing up from her notes.
