The letter was unsigned.
Twenty-two years.
Families.
A newspaper story.
None of it fit with the man I had awakened beside for more than four decades.
Then, I remembered Claire’s trembling voice.
I slipped the letter into my purse and carefully stepped around the shoes.
The drive to Claire’s took 18 minutes.
I remembered almost none of it.
She opened the door before I could knock.
Her eyes were red, and she wore a sweater she had clearly slept in.
Her gaze dropped to the envelope in my purse.
“So, something came to your house too,” she whispered.
On her kitchen counter sat a pair of small brown sneakers and an envelope identical to mine.
“Whose shoes are those?” I asked.
