David’s face told me everything before his words did.

“Mom… I can’t find it. Any of it.”

That night I didn’t sleep. I lay in the bed Bob and I had shared for decades, staring at the ceiling, my mind ricocheting through memories—the Tuesday bank trips, his insistence on handling everything, the way he’d pat my hand and say, “Don’t worry about the boring money stuff, Maggie. I’ve got it covered.”

He’d had it covered.

All right.

Thursday morning arrived cold and gray. I dressed carefully—navy blazer, slacks—armor, not morning clothes. David offered to come with me, but I said no. Whatever was in that box, I needed to see it first. Alone.

The bank was a modern building of glass and steel. The manager, a woman in her fifties named Patricia, met me at the entrance. Her smile was sympathetic, professional.

“Mrs. Thompson, I’m so sorry for your loss. Your husband was a valued client for many years.”

She led me down a hallway to the vault. The boxes lined the walls like metal teeth. She used two keys—hers and the one she’d handed me—to open box 847.