I thought carefully before answering. "Probably. And I don't think that would have meant we were okay."
We began living in different places without ever announcing that we were separated. It happened in increments. I collected more clothes from the house while Vanessa was at work, left a written list of the bills I'd continue paying, and moved the automatic payment for my pickup insurance to my individual checking account. We agreed to keep the mortgage and utilities funded as usual until we had a longer-term plan. Nothing about it looked like the ending of a movie; most of it looked like paperwork.
At night, though, the ordinary tasks could not keep the memories away. I missed our bed, the sound of water running in the upstairs bathroom, and the familiar creak of the second stair. I missed watching Vanessa fall asleep while pretending she was still following a television show. Sometimes I reached across the guest-room mattress before I was fully awake, then remembered that the space beside me was supposed to be empty.
Vanessa called often in those first two weeks. At first she alternated between apology and accusation. One night she told me she had been unfair and wanted to make things right; the next morning she asked whether Ethan had been filling my head with ideas about divorce. When I wouldn't argue, she grew indignant, then frightened, then indignant again. I began answering only when I was able to have a calm conversation, and that change angered her more than any raised voice could have.
Her sister, Elise, contacted me on a Wednesday afternoon. Elise was a nurse at a hospital in Elizabeth, younger than Vanessa by four years, and had never confused loyalty with telling someone what they wanted to hear. We'd always gotten along, partly because she spoke plainly and partly because she knew when to stop.
"I'm not calling to negotiate for her," Elise said. "She asked me to, and I told her no. I just wanted to check that you're okay."
"I'm managing."
"She says you walked out over a harmless night with friends."
I let out a tired breath. "Is that the version she's telling people?"
"It was yesterday. The day before, she told Mom she said something she wishes she could take back."
"Both things probably feel true to her."
Elise was quiet for a beat. "Daniel, I love my sister. But she talks about you like you're furniture that's been in the house forever. She forgets that you can leave the room."