While cleaning out my husband’s office, I accidentally found a USB drive with a label that read, “Sarah, only open if I’m no longer here to explain myself.” I hesitated for a moment before plugging it into the computer. The video started—my husband, choked with emotion, his eyes red and swollen, said, “Sarah… I… I’m not…” I was frozen. My heart sank. I turned off the screen, took a deep breath, and called my lawyer. Twenty-four hours later, I had all the information… and a clear plan of action.
I stared at it for nearly ten minutes, sitting in his leather chair, the one he’d claimed as his kingdom for twenty-five years. It still held the faint scent of his coffee, his aftershave, the dusty sweetness of old paper. The house around me was quiet in that particular way grief makes it—no music, no…