Our house.
That phrase still existed in my mind then.
I parked in the garage.
Hung my keys on the hook by the mudroom door because habit survives shock.
I walked into the kitchen and stood there for a while without turning on the light.
The refrigerator hummed.
The dishwasher from that morning had finished hours earlier.
A bowl of lemons sat on the island.
Everything looked so ordinary that for a moment I almost believed the restaurant had happened to somebody else.
Then I noticed my left hand.
No ring.
I went to the study.
The fireproof safe sat inside a cabinet behind my desk.
I had opened it perhaps a dozen times in eighteen years.
Laura handled most household paperwork.
She enjoyed organization.
I did not.
That arrangement had worked because I trusted her.
The combination was based on the month we married.
I knelt.
Turned the dial.
Opened the door.
I was looking for our property documents.
Nothing dramatic.
I wanted to know what was actually mine, actually ours, and actually tied together.
The safe contained the deed to the house.
Insurance documents.
My will.
Laura's will.
Old loan files.
Birth certificates.
Business papers.
Then I found a folder I had never seen.
Thick manila.
Laura's handwriting across the front.
LAUREL ROW INTERIORS - EXPANSION.
I sat back on my heels.
Opened it.
The first page was a project summary.
Second showroom.
Design studio.
Warehouse storage.
Fifteen planned hires.
A new entity connected to Laurel Row Interiors.