"I want space," I said. "I want you to leave tonight and arrange a time through Nora to collect your things. I want you to stop speaking for Lark & Line. And I want you to stop telling me that my reaction is what injured us."
His face hardened. "You're throwing away our marriage over one bad decision."
"No," I replied. "I'm deciding what to do after many decisions you made without me."
Julian looked at Nina, then at the wedding cards, then at his bag. For a second I thought he might refuse to go. Instead, he picked up the duffel and said he would call in the morning, as though I had merely postponed a disagreement rather than named the terms of a separation. When the door shut, Nina sat beside me, and I began to cry before I could pretend not to need anyone.
She did not tell me I was strong. She did not say I had won. She simply stayed and helped me gather the wilted flowers into a paper bag, leaving the wedding cards untouched for another day. We ordered noodles from the place Julian and I used to visit, and for the first time I could remember I chose a dish he had always disliked without thinking about whether he would have something to eat.
The next morning I woke with a message from Julian that read, "We need to stop involving other people in our private problems." Beneath it was another asking whether I had sent Westbridge additional correspondence and whether the Ashford House committee had been delayed. I replied only to confirm a time for him to collect clothing and work equipment under arrangements reviewed with Nora. He did not answer that message at all.
I went to Lark & Line for the first time since the wedding. Our studio occupied the upper floor of an old commercial building whose staircase creaked under every footstep. I had designed the front room with a long oak table rescued from a demolished school, and shelves of material samples lined the far wall. My employees looked up, uncertain how much of the news they knew and what they were supposed to say to a woman who should have been on honeymoon.
"Good morning," I told them. "I'm glad to be back. We have a preservation proposal due on Thursday, and I'd like to review the drawings before lunch."
Work did not cure grief, but it offered a structure in which my decisions still had visible consequences. A corrected measurement made a drawing better. An honest conversation with a client led to a clear agreement. I spent the morning doing the work I knew how to do, and for three hours I forgot to check whether Julian had called. When I remembered, I felt something like relief instead of guilt.