Marisa emailed the relevant policies. We had several months left on the contract, and the simplest route was for one of us to qualify independently and sign a release for the other. I asked whether Lauren could remain if she wished, and Marisa said that would depend on income verification and approval. There was also a lease termination option with an early-exit charge if neither of us could assume the townhouse alone. I printed the information, marked the deadlines, and sent Lauren a copy through our practical email channel.
Her reply arrived that evening. She wrote that she couldn't believe I was trying to take her home away while she was grieving, and that I knew how much effort she had put into decorating the place. I answered that I wasn't asking her to leave, but that I could not continue paying indefinitely for a residence I no longer occupied. I offered to cooperate with the application if she wanted to assume the lease and asked her to review the alternative if the rent was too much alone. She didn't answer the financial questions, but she sent a long message about how the townhouse was supposed to be where we began our married life.
I knew that history too well. We had chosen curtains together and assembled a dining table on the living-room floor because we couldn't find the correct screwdriver. Lauren had spent an afternoon hanging photographs along the staircase, moving them a fraction of an inch at a time until the spacing looked right. I had planted herbs in pots on the patio and forgotten to water the basil during a heat wave. The house contained ordinary evidence of our life, and I wasn't immune to what leaving it meant.
On the following Tuesday, I went back to collect more of my belongings. I had emailed Lauren a day in advance and arranged a time while she would be at work, because I didn't want either of us to be surprised. I took a colleague with me so there would be another person present if questions arose about what belonged to whom, but I asked him to wait downstairs unless I needed help carrying boxes. The idea of returning made my stomach tense, although I knew the practical task itself should have been simple.
Inside, the townhouse smelled like the candle Lauren always lit when guests were coming over. Several framed photographs had been removed from the wall, leaving pale rectangles against the paint. The wedding planning board was gone from the office, and the closet where we had kept decoration samples stood partly empty. I couldn't tell whether Lauren was preparing to move or trying to make the house feel different. I didn't ask, because the answers no longer belonged to me.