Lauren's eyes snapped to me.
“You called my mother?”
“Yesterday.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That we were separating and you might need somewhere to stay.”
“She knows?”
“Yes.”
Humiliation flashed across her face.
Then anger.
“You had no right.”
“She is your emergency contact and you needed housing.”
“I could've stayed here.”
“You can discuss temporary access arrangements through counsel if necessary.”
“Counsel.”
She stared at me.
“You're talking to me like a client.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“If you were a client, this would be easier.”
She picked up her overnight bag.
Then put it down again.
“Please let me inside.”
I hesitated.
Then stepped back.
“Ten minutes.”
Lauren entered the foyer.
She looked around.
Nothing had changed structurally.
Yet everything had.
The console table no longer held her keys.
Her photographs were gone.
The coat hook where her camel jacket usually hung was empty.
The house looked cleaner.
Also lonelier.
She walked into the living room.
The wedding photo was gone.
She noticed immediately.
“Where is it?”
“Packed.”
“With my things?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I did not know how to answer honestly without sounding cruel.
“Because I couldn't look at it.”
That stopped her.
Lauren sat on the sofa.
I remained standing.
She looked smaller than I remembered.
“I don't want a divorce.”
“You wanted freedom.”
“I didn't understand what that meant.”
“You understood enough to leave.”
“I thought marriage could survive me questioning it.”
“It could.”
I sat across from her.
“Marriage could survive questions.”
She looked up.
“It could survive unhappiness. Counseling. Anger. A separation, maybe. It could even potentially survive infidelity if both people decided to rebuild.”
Her face changed.
“Then—”
“I don't.”
She froze.
“I don't want to rebuild this.”
The sentence felt cruel.
It was also true.
Lauren whispered:
“Because of one week.”
“No.”
I leaned forward.
“Because I finally understand the three years before it.”
She started shaking her head.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You're rewriting our marriage because you're angry.”
“I spent Saturday trying not to.”
“Then don't.”
“I remembered Trevor.”
Her eyes closed.
“Ethan.”
“The Manhattan lie.”
“That wasn't—”
“Three in the morning.”
“I apologized.”
“You apologized because you knew I'd forgive you.”
“That isn't fair.”
“Maybe not.”
My voice stayed quiet.
“But Friday you said it out loud.”
Lauren looked at me.
“You always forgive me.”
She closed her eyes.
“I shouldn't have said that.”
“No.”