The lease took another two weeks to resolve. Sarah wanted to leave immediately, and I preferred to stay until the term ended because moving while managing a new team at work would have stretched my savings too far. We reached a written agreement with the landlord: I would keep the apartment, she would be removed from the lease after the required paperwork, and we would divide the early modification fee and the remaining shared expenses. It was not pleasant, but it was finite.
There was one telephone conversation about money, conducted because email had produced too many overlapping questions. Sarah asked whether I intended to bill her for every flower and napkin. I said I intended to settle only documented shared expenses and that we could use the receipts to do it fairly. She accused me of being cold. I told her I was trying to be clear.
"You don't have to act like I meant nothing to you," she said.
I was standing in the kitchen where the corkboard had once hung. The two small nail holes were still visible above the counter. "You meant everything to me," I said. "That's why we're having this conversation. If you hadn't mattered, there wouldn't be a wedding to cancel."
There was a long silence. Then she said, "I didn't ask for it to end like this."
"Neither did I."
"You're making it so final."
I looked at the empty wall. "Sarah, you told me you were seeing another man, and you said you weren't sorry. What outcome did you think I would choose?"
She started to answer, stopped, and said, "I just didn't think you'd shut me out."
That was the last thing she said that evening. We completed the financial details in writing after that, and I did not call her again. I had spent too many weeks attempting to hold a conversation while she kept looking past me. I could not do that again merely because the consequences of her decision had begun to frighten her.
My parents visited the following Sunday. My mother brought soup, bread, and a container of cookies, exactly as I had predicted she would. My father brought a small toolbox because I had mentioned that one of the kitchen cabinet hinges was loose. He did not ask about Sarah until after we had fixed it, and when he did, his question was gentle.
"You sleeping?" he asked.
"A little."
"Eating?"
"More than last week."
He tightened the final screw and tested the door. "Good. Start with those two things. The rest takes longer."
Dad was not a man who gave long speeches. He worked in municipal maintenance and had spent most of my childhood repairing things while listening to the radio. I used to wish he would tell me exactly what to do when I was confused. Now I appreciated that he knew some problems were not his to solve.
After lunch, Mom asked whether I wanted her to return the wedding gift she had already bought us. I told her to keep it for now, because even thinking about the gift made my chest tighten. She nodded and asked no more questions. Later, when she thought I was busy with the dishes, I saw her looking at the empty space where Sarah's photograph had been.