All Gifts

Dora sat and stared at the box. It was innocuous, just brown paper wrapped around something smaller than a shoebox. How could its contents possibly be so important?

She had been told never to open it, not to touch it. Of course, that piqued her interest more—if she had just been told it wasn’t anything important she wouldn’t have been nearly as interested in its contents, wouldn’t lay up at night staring at her husband’s closet, swearing she could see the box in the dark because it glowed. But it didn’t glow, not really—she was just constantly aware of its location, as if it were the central axis upon which her world revolved. She always knew where she was in relation to the box. It was her homing beacon, her north star, her lighthouse.

Sometimes, when she was alone, she would take the box carefully off its shelf and sit with it, caress it like it was a beloved pet. She would fantasize about what the box contained—jewels, perhaps, though it wasn’t heavy enough. Or maybe bonds or deeds to houses. They were well-off enough, but nothing spectacular. Perhaps her husband wanted to hide certain assets from the government?

He hadn’t ever hinted at what the box contained, just said it had something to do with his past and refused to talk about it anymore. But why not just get rid of it? He never opened it, barely acknowledged its existence. She’d asked him about that once and he’d finally given her more—“That’s not me anymore. Some things are best left buried.”

Dora bit her lip. She was certain she could open the brown paper wrapping without damaging anything. Should she finally open it? It wasn’t just curiosity, this was also about her marriage. Her husband was keeping a part of himself locked away from her and that hurt. Perhaps if she finally knew every part of him she could stop feeling like something separated them. And really, how bad was going against your husband’s wishes if it might save your marriage?

She moved the box so she could access the taped seams. She would remove the brown paper wrapping and if the box inside was sealed then she wouldn’t go any further. But if it was open…

She carefully detached the tape and let out a relieved sigh. She would have to add some adhesive to the sticky side when she put the wrapping back to rights but she hadn’t damaged the paper. She continued with the other taped seams and carefully unwrapped the parcel. The box within was small and unassuming.

And unsealed.

Dora’s heart raced as she carefully peeled back one side of the lid, then the other, and peeked inside. She’d expected something revelatory—multiple passports with different names but all with her husband’s face, money, something. Instead, all she found were a handful of pictures. She lifted them out and flipped through them, not quite making sense of what she was seeing at first. Then she felt her heart stop as the pieces fell into place.

Those pictures changed everything.

She carefully wrapped the box in the brown paper and placed it back where it belonged, hidden in the depths of the closet and not touched by the light of day. It had never been “just a box,” but now it was something more than what it had been.

She remembered the story of Bluebeard’s wife, how curiosity got the better of her and she entered the one room she’d been forbidden from entering. This was the key dropped in blood never to be cleaned. The box was no longer the axis by which she oriented her world, it was now a thing that would stalk her in the dark. It was living and breathing, staring at her, hunting her. It was the beating heart hidden under the floorboards, determined to drive her mad.

She stepped out of the bedroom with shaking hands. She knew she should continue walking straight out the door and away from her marriage. There was no way to go on from this. Before, she could have lived in ignorance, but now? Her curiosity had slithered serpentine through her head and urged her to taste forbidden knowledge and now there was no way for her to unsee her own nakedness. One moment had cast her out of paradise, and for what? Was gaining this knowledge worth the destruction of the life she’d been living?

She was a tumult of emotions—despair, regret, fear—yet beneath all that, hope still burned in her chest. Hope that she could go on with her life as it had been, hope that her husband truly had moved beyond what she’d seen in those photos, even if he kept them close and refused to get rid of them, saw the box every day to be reminded of what it contained.

She laughed to herself. Ah, hope. It truly was the cruelest, sharpest knife.