“I’ll give you privacy,” she said, gesturing toward a small room with a table and a chair.

The box was heavier than I expected. I carried it to the table, set it down, and for a long moment just stared at it—plain metal, locked secrets, the summary of a marriage I thought I understood.

Then I opened it.

Inside were folders. A lot of them.

The first one I pulled out was labeled: INVESTMENTS — ACTUAL.

My hands shook as I opened it.

Page after page of losses. Bad bets, failed stocks, risky ventures that tanked. Hundreds of thousands of dollars—gone. And these weren’t accounts I recognized. These had Bob’s name on them, only his name.

The second folder was worse.

Home equity loans. Three of them—taken out against our house. Our home. The place where I’d raised my children, planted roses, painted the kitchen three different colors over the years.

Total debt: $270,000.