I start to relax as soon as I walk through the front gate, closing it behind myself. But instead of heading inside, I circle around to the backyard and the small deck where I like to do my paperwork. I take a seat at the small table and open Owen’s laptop. I push Grady Bradford out of my mind. I push out Patty’s wrath. And I ignore that Carl wouldn’t even look at me, let alone provide any insight. It centers me, in a way, knowing I have to figure it out myself. And I feel calmer being among my things, my work. Being in my favorite place in Sausalito. It makes it almost feel normal that I’m hacking into my husband’s personal computer.

Owen’s laptop powers up and I key in his first password. Nothing pops out at me as unusual. I click open his PHOTOS folder, which is essentially the Bailey bible. There are hundreds of photographs of her from elementary school and junior high, photographs from each and every birthday starting with her fifth birthday in Sausalito. I’ve seen these all many times. Owen loved narrating the parts of their life that I’d missed: Little Bailey playing in her first soccer game, which she was terrible in; Little Bailey performing in her first school play in second grade (Anything Goes), which she was amazing in.

I don’t find a lot of photographs of them from when Bailey was very little, back when they were still living in Seattle, at least not in the main folder.

So I click on a small subfolder labeled O.M.

This is the folder for Olivia Michaels. Owen’s first wife. Bailey’s mother.

Olivia Michaels née Olivia Nelson: high school biology teacher, synchronized swimmer, Owen’s fellow Princeton alum. There are only a handful of photographs in this folder too—Owen said Olivia hated to be photographed. But the photographs he does have of her are beautiful, probably because she was beautiful. She was tall and lean with long red hair that ran halfway down her back and an intense dimple that made her look permanently sixteen.

We don’t look exactly alike—she was prettier, for starters, more interesting-looking. But, if you swapped out some of the details, it would be fair to say there is a similarity between us. The height, the long hair (mine is blond to her red), maybe even something in her smile. The first time Owen showed me a photograph of her, I commented on the similarity. But Owen said he didn’t see it. He didn’t get defensive, he just said if I actually saw his first wife in person, I wouldn’t think we had much in common.