That part hurt.
The first weekend we prepared it for listing, Rachel and I worked together in almost complete silence.
I patched nail holes.
She packed decorative objects.
At one point we found a box from our wedding.
Programs.
Place cards.
A dried flower from Rachel's bouquet.
She sat on the floor holding it.
"I thought we'd die in the same nursing home."
I leaned against the wall.
"So did I."
"What happened to us?"
There was no single answer.
We stopped talking.
I became useful instead of intimate.
She became dependent and resentful instead of honest.
Routine turned into assumption.
Assumption turned into distance.
Distance turned into convenience.
Then one overheard conversation made all the invisible parts visible at once.
"I don't think we hated each other," Rachel said.
"No."
"That almost makes it worse."
"Maybe."
She put the flower back.
We did not divide the wedding box.
It went with her.
The house sold within three weeks.
The buyers were a young couple.
Engaged.
Rachel saw them during the final walkthrough.
Afterward she texted me:
They look happy.
I answered:
We did too.
She replied:
Yeah.
That exchange stayed with me.
Happiness had not been fake.
It had simply not been permanent.
We divided equity.
Savings.
Investment accounts.
Furniture.
Rachel kept the dining set.
I kept the sofa.
She kept most kitchen equipment because my apartment came furnished and I did not care enough to argue about mixing bowls.
I kept my camera equipment.
She kept the artwork.
The watch was long gone.
On the day we signed the final property agreement, Rachel asked:
"Do you ever think about it?"
"The watch?"
She smiled.
"Of course you know what I mean."
"Sometimes."
"What did you buy?"
I told her.
Her eyes widened.
"The Cartier?"
"Yes."
"You're kidding."
"No."
She laughed through sudden tears.
"I knew it."
"Apparently."
"What did you spend?"
"Not relevant."
"Ethan."
"No."
She shook her head.
"I can't believe I lost a Cartier because I called my husband Netflix."
Despite everything, I laughed.
So did she.
That was perhaps the first time the subscription joke stopped feeling like a knife.
Our divorce became final six months after the anniversary dinner.
There was no courtroom war.
No one "won."
The final hearing was brief.
Formal questions.
Do you understand the agreement?
Yes.
Are you entering voluntarily?
Yes.
Is reconciliation reasonably possible?
Rachel and I both paused at that one.
Then:
"No."
The judge signed.
Eight years of marriage legally concluded before lunch.
Outside the courthouse, Rachel stood beside me on the steps.
Cold morning.
Cloudy.
She put her hands in her coat pockets.
"So that's it."
"Yeah."
She looked at me.
"Do you ever regret leaving?"
I thought carefully.