Joel had already left for work. He did not leave a note. He did not call. He let the documents speak for him, and they spoke coldly and efficiently, outlining separation, custody proposals, and a future that did not include the quiet routines we had built together.
I did not cry then. I folded the papers, set them aside, and poured more milk into Phoebe’s bowl, because she was watching me too closely, and I had learned to keep my face steady when her eyes searched for reassurance.
The weeks that followed passed in a blur of consultations, late nights reading unfamiliar terminology, and moments when anger surged only to collapse into exhaustion, because grief has a way of cycling through emotions without warning. Joel and I spoke little, and when we did our conversations stayed carefully neutral, as though both of us feared what might surface if we allowed honesty to stretch its legs.