…tell you everything. He asked me to come first, because he couldn’t.”

The man’s name was Walter Greene. He was seventy-two. In 1988, he had been convicted of a robbery he didn’t commit and sentenced to twenty-five years.

My husband, Tom, had been his lawyer.

I knew Tom had worked as a public defender early in his career. I knew he quit suddenly and went into real estate law. I never knew why. He’d always said he was “tired of losing.”

“He was twenty-eight and fresh out of law school,” Walter said. “He knew I was innocent. He fought for me. But the witness lied, and the jury believed her. The verdict came in on the morning of your wedding. He came to see me in the holding cell, still in his tuxedo, and promised he’d never stop. Then he went to the church and married you.”

He didn’t. The blue suitcase in our garage was full of case files. For thirty-eight years, Tom had worked on Walter’s case on nights and weekends, without telling me. He wrote to journalists, innocence projects, new witnesses. Five years ago, a DNA test on old evidence finally proved Walter’s innocence. Walter was released. Last month, the state formally cleared his name and awarded him compensation.

And every anniversary for the past five years — every hearing, every appeal — had fallen on or around the same date in October. Tom hadn’t been fishing. He’d been in court, or in a prison waiting room, or on the phone with Walter’s lawyers.

“Why didn’t he tell me?” I asked.

“Because he was ashamed he lost the first time,” Walter said. “And because he was afraid you’d tell him to let it go.”

I wouldn’t have. But I understood why he thought so.

Then Walter pointed over my shoulder. Tom was standing at the restaurant door in his only suit, holding a bunch of roses and the blue suitcase.

He sat down and opened it on the table. On top of thirty-eight years of files was a small envelope. Inside were two plane tickets to Portugal and a note in his handwriting: “I owe you five anniversaries. Let’s start with this one.”

We used the hotel room I’d booked. Walter took a taxi home, laughing. On our way out, he told Tom, “She’s a better woman than you deserve.” Tom said, “I know. That’s why I married her.”