Three years.
Children?
None.
House ownership?
Purchased by me before marriage. Title remained solely in my name, though marital funds had contributed to some expenses and improvements.
Prenuptial agreement?
Yes.
That surprised her.
Lauren and I had signed one before marriage because I already owned several properties and she had retirement accounts and family assets of her own.
Separate finances except for a joint household account?
Mostly.
Maya slowed down.
“Do not assume the prenup resolves everything.”
“I won't.”
“Do not lock her out.”
“Wasn't planning to.”
“Do not dispose of her property.”
“I want it out of my house.”
“Eventually.”
“Maya.”
“I understand.”
“No, I mean physically. I cannot sit here surrounded by it.”
She paused.
“You can inventory and pack clearly personal belongings carefully. Photograph them. Do not damage anything. Do not prevent lawful access until we determine the appropriate arrangement.”
“That sounds depressing.”
“Divorce is mostly depressing paperwork wrapped around intense feelings.”
“I'm not sure I'm divorcing her.”
The silence on her end lasted just long enough.
Then she said:
“Why did you call me?”
I looked at the wedding photograph facedown in the library.
“Because I think I am.”
That was the first time I said it.
The words felt enormous.
Then smaller.
Then strangely accurate.
Maya emailed me a checklist.
Financial records.
Prenup.
House documents.
Account statements.
Insurance.
Tax returns.
No accusations.
No revenge.
Documentation.
I laughed at the familiarity.
Of course my marriage was ending in a spreadsheet.
Saturday afternoon, Lauren texted.
How are you?
I stared at the question.
Then answered:
Processing.
She replied:
Me too.
Nothing else.
That evening, I slept in the guest room.
Not because our bed smelled like her.
Because lying there felt like waiting.
Sunday morning, I woke at five.
Made coffee.
Opened every curtain downstairs.
Then I began collecting Lauren's things.
Not packing yet.
Inventory.
Maya had told me to photograph.
So I did.
Closet.
Shoes.
Jewelry storage left untouched.
Books.
Office equipment.
Personal documents.
I separated shared property from obviously personal items.
It felt clinical.
Awful.
Necessary.
At nine, I found a small shopping bag hidden behind winter coats.
Inside was a box from a jeweler in Manhattan.
At first I thought Lauren had bought something.
Then I remembered.
The anniversary gift.
I had purchased it three weeks earlier.
Our fourth anniversary was still six weeks away.
Lauren had spent months admiring a Cartier Tank watch every time we passed the boutique on Fifth Avenue.
She would never buy it herself.
Too expensive.
Too impractical.
So I had.
It cost more than I was comfortable admitting.
I planned to give it to her at dinner in Manhattan.
The silver gift wrap had already been done by the store.
A ribbon.