I locked the door and placed the key in the envelope the real-estate agent had provided. Then I walked to my truck, where Pepper waited in her carrier on the passenger seat, complaining as only a cat being inconvenienced can complain. I told her we were going home, and for the first time the word referred to a place I hadn't once imagined sharing with Natalie.
The divorce became final later that summer. There was no dramatic hearing, no humiliating confrontation, and no one declared a winner. We'd resolved the major issues with our attorneys' help, and the court entered an order reflecting the agreements we'd made. I removed my wedding ring afterward and put it in a small box at the back of my desk drawer.
I expected the moment to feel more significant. Instead, I went to work the next morning because a generator inspection was scheduled and people were counting on me to do my job. During lunch I sat in my office and looked at my bare hand for a minute. I felt sad, relieved, guilty, and oddly proud that we had reached the end without making one another's lives uglier than necessary.
The first summer in the bungalow was quieter than anything I'd known since my twenties. I cooked when I was hungry, took walks after work, and invited friends over without first calculating whether my plans would irritate somebody. Ben helped me build shelving in the garage. Daniel brought a folding table that fit the small patio, and his wife gave me herbs for a planter by the kitchen window.
I began riding a bicycle in the evenings along a paved trail near the river. At first I went because my counselor thought movement and daylight might help me sleep. Then I discovered I liked the freedom of riding without having to be anywhere in particular. Some nights I stopped near the water and watched people walk their dogs while the sun slipped behind the trees.
I still had bad days. A song in a grocery store could make me remember Natalie dancing barefoot in our first apartment. A particular brand of coffee reminded me of her father, who used to bring bags of it whenever he visited. On our wedding anniversary, I sat in the garage staring at a motorcycle part for so long that I eventually put it down and went inside.
I learned not to treat those moments as evidence that I'd made the wrong decision. A marriage could end for good reasons and still leave grief in places you didn't expect. I stopped asking myself why I wasn't completely over it and began asking what I needed on the days when it hurt. Sometimes the answer was a phone call to Ben. Sometimes it was a long walk, a session with Dr. Porter, or a quiet night with a book.