If I wanted out, then I needed to behave like somebody who wanted resolution, not revenge.
I did still pack Lauren’s belongings.
But I did it after receiving advice.
Carefully.
Nothing discarded.
Nothing damaged.
Nothing withheld.
I photographed the contents of each box.
Clothing.
Shoes.
Books.
Cosmetics.
Jewelry.
Electronics.
Personal records.
I separated anything that might be jointly owned.
I did not touch her work computer.
I did not move medication.
I did not remove photographs belonging to both of us.
The process took most of the day.
At first, packing felt satisfying.
Then it stopped.
Around noon, I stood in our bedroom holding one of Lauren’s sweaters.
The closet behind me looked half empty.
Her side of the dresser was bare.
Her perfume bottles were packed.
Her books were gone from the nightstand.
Six years of shared life had become cardboard, labels, and an inventory sheet.
There was nothing satisfying about that.
My phone buzzed.
Lauren.
Are you ready to stop this nonsense and let me back into the house?
I read it.
Then another.
Eric.
Then:
We need to talk like adults.
I nearly laughed at that one.
Instead, I carried another box downstairs.
Early that afternoon, Stephen called.
“Her attorney contacted me.”
“She has an attorney already?”