“All right.”
“You’re really doing this.”
“Yes.”
She looked at me for several seconds.
“I hope you’re happy.”
I almost made another joke.
I stopped myself.
“No.”
That seemed to surprise her more than sarcasm would have.
“I’m not happy, Lauren.”
She opened the car door.
“I’m just done pretending this was normal.”
She got in.
The cars pulled away.
I closed the garage door.
The house became silent.
Not peaceful.
Silent.
I walked through the kitchen.
The dining room.
The living room.
Rooms we had decorated together.
Places where we had hosted Christmas dinners, watched movies, recovered from the flu, argued about paint colors, celebrated promotions, and once spent an entire Sunday assembling a bookcase backward before realizing the shelves were upside down.
Ending a marriage does not erase those things.
That was something I learned quickly.
You can know a relationship has become unhealthy and still remember when it was good.
You can want out and still grieve.
Both can be true.
The next morning I formally retained Stephen.
He explained what would happen.
Financial disclosures.
Temporary agreements.
Tracing premarital property.
Reviewing mortgage contributions.
Joint savings.
Retirement accounts.
Household possessions.
Possible mediation.
I listened.
There were no dramatic legal tricks.
No secret clause that erased six years.
The house being mine before marriage mattered.