The tab was labeled with brutal neatness. Inside were dates, hotel receipts, photographs, restaurant reservations, flight records, timelines. Grant exiting a boutique hotel in San Francisco with Becca in sunglasses and jeans. Grant touching the small of her back outside a steakhouse in Chicago. Grant kissing her in the shadow of a valet stand while I was apparently home making lasagna and answering texts about my father’s white blood cell counts.
My stomach rolled, but I kept turning pages.
There had been more than I knew. Of course there had. Birthdays missed. Dinners “with clients.” A supposed conference weekend in Seattle that was actually Cabo. In one picture, taken through the windshield of a parked car, Becca was laughing with her head thrown back and her hand on Grant’s thigh. The date on the bottom corner was the same day my father started hospice.
I pressed my fist to my mouth and tasted salt where I’d bitten the inside of my lip too hard.
The yellow file held financial statements.
The blue file held copies of my prenup, highlighted sections tabbed like battle plans.