I stood there, staring. My brain could not connect what my eyes were seeing with the reality I had lived for 23 years. The inside of the unit had been completely insulated. There were drywall sheets painted a soft, warm beige.

A plush blue rug covered the concrete floor. Against the far wall was a full-sized bed, made neatly with a yellow floral quilt. A small television was mounted on the wall, and a wooden dresser sat underneath it.

I walked inside, my sneakers sinking into the rug. On top of the dresser were several framed photos. I picked one up. It was Brian. He was standing on a beach, wearing a shirt I had never seen, laughing. He was holding a woman around the waist. She was younger, maybe in her early 30s, with dark curly hair. They looked happy. They looked like a couple on a honeymoon. I set the frame down. My hand was trembling so much it clicked against the wood.

Then I saw the wall behind the small kitchen counter. There were children’s drawings taped to the drywall. One was a crayon picture of a big yellow sun and three stick figures. At the bottom, in messy, uneven letters, it said, ‘To Daddy, Love Emma.’ Next to the drawings was a curtain. I pulled it back. There were two small twin beds. A pile of stuffed animals sat on one of them. In the tiny bathroom corner, there was a shelf with three toothbrushes. A blue one, a pink one, and a tiny yellow one with a cartoon character on it.

A calendar hung on the wall near the microwave. I looked at the grid of days. There were school pickup times written in Brian’s handwriting on Tuesdays and Thursdays. ‘Pick up Emma 3:30.’ ‘Dinner at 5:00.’ Thursdays.

Every Thursday for 9 years, he told me he was going to the storage unit to organize his tackle. He was coming here. He was living a whole separate life just 20 minutes away from our house. I stood in the middle of that room for 20 minutes, completely numb. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t even think. I just stood there.

Then I heard the sound of tires on the gravel outside. A car door slammed. I froze, my eyes locked on the open entrance of the unit. A woman’s voice called out, ‘Brian? You’re early. I thought you had that meeting in Columbus.’ She walked into the unit, her arms full of brown paper grocery bags. A little child, about 6 years old, with a bright pink backpack, was holding her hand. The woman stopped dead in her tracks. The grocery bags slipped from her arms. A carton of eggs hit the blue rug, and a jar of marinara sauce shattered, red sauce spreading across the blue carpet like wet paint.

The woman stared at me, her face losing all its color. ‘Who are you?’ she whispered, her voice shaking. ‘What are you doing in our place?’ I looked at her. I looked at her dark curly hair, the same hair from the photo on the dresser. I looked at the little girl, who had scrambled behind her mother’s legs, staring at me with wide, frightened eyes. ‘I’m Brian’s wife,’ I said. My voice didn’t sound like mine. It was flat, quiet, and completely dead. ‘I’m Ellen.’