“My husband texted from vegas: ‘just married my coworker. You’re pathetic BTW.’ I replied: ‘cool.’ Then I blocked his cards and changed the house locks. Next morning, police were at my door…”

I showered. I dressed. I tied my hair back. Then I went into the guest room closet, pulled out boxes, and started packing Ethan’s belongings with the same methodical precision I once used to assemble quarterly operations reports. Shirts folded. Books stacked. Electronics wrapped in spare towels. Toiletries bagged. Shoes paired. I labeled every box in black marker: clothes, books, electronics, office, miscellaneous. If he wanted to claim I had damaged anything, he’d have to do it against a level of order he had never once brought into our shared life.

As I packed, memory kept surfacing in ugly flashes.

Ethan laughing at dinner parties, charming everyone with that easy warmth that had once made me feel chosen.

Ethan kissing me in grocery store aisles while I held the list.

Ethan coming home from work tired and dropping onto the couch while I finished the dishes, and me telling myself that was fine because he had a stressful week.

Ethan saying Rebecca’s name months earlier in some offhand work story, his face turned away while he opened the fridge.

Rebecca.