I walked through the rooms with a list and took only what we had agreed belonged to me. There was my old desk, three boxes of books, clothing, a set of tools, an electric kettle I had owned before we moved in, and the photographs from my parents' anniversary. I left dishes and furniture we had purchased jointly because the division was not settled yet. In the bedroom, I found a cardboard box labeled with my name, containing small things Lauren had gathered from drawers and shelves. The effort upset me more than an angry note would have.
Inside the box was a ticket from our first Rockies game, a photograph from Santa Fe, and the cheap keychain I had bought her on a road trip. They were not the things I needed to function in my new apartment. They were reminders of an ordinary happiness that had once been easy to imagine continuing indefinitely. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked through them, feeling an urge to call Lauren and ask whether she had meant to give the memories back as a punishment. I did not call, because I knew the question could only hurt us both.
In the bathroom, her toothbrush was still beside the place mine had occupied. I realized I had not thought to take the small glass cup we bought on our first grocery trip together. For years, we had argued jokingly about who was responsible for replacing toothpaste. Now there was only one toothbrush in the cup, and the emptiness was more convincing than the missing engagement photograph. I finished packing and went downstairs before I could change my mind about leaving.
Owen carried the boxes to his truck while I checked the rooms against the inventory. At the front door, I turned the key over in my hand. Carmen had asked both of us to keep our keys until the lease paperwork was resolved, so I did not leave it behind. The house was still legally part of a contract I had signed. But emotionally, standing outside with the boxes at my feet, I understood that I would not be coming home to it again.
Lauren texted that evening asking whether I had taken the small coffee table from the living room. I said no and sent a photograph I had taken before leaving. She responded with a question about the desk, and I reminded her that it had belonged to me before we moved in and that it was included on our agreed list. The conversation remained practical for several messages. Then she wrote, "I cannot believe we are arguing about furniture when you could just come home."
I stared at the message. It offered an escape from the logistics but did not address what had brought us there. I replied that we were not arguing about furniture and that I was willing to make the division fair. I did not respond to the invitation to come home. She wrote back that I was heartless. I put the phone away and made dinner in a kitchen where I had to balance the cutting board across the sink.