“With an attorney.”
“You planned everything.”
“Basic logistics.”
She stared at the walnut dining table.
The one we had chosen together in Ballard.
“You planned my life without me.”
I almost replied immediately.
Then stopped.
Because I understood why that hurt.
“Yes.”
Petra looked up.
“I’m sorry for that part.”
She laughed bitterly.
“That part?”
“I couldn’t ask your permission to leave.”
“I’m your wife.”
“That’s why I told you before filing.”
“You already hired a lawyer.”
“Yes.”
“So the conversation is over.”
“The decision is.”
She closed her eyes.
I hated myself in that moment.
Then I remembered every time I had said I was hurt and watched the conversation become an argument about whether my hurt was legitimate.
I remained where I was.
We ate dinner anyway.
Pasta.
Store-bought sauce.
Neither of us tasted it.
That night Petra slept on the couch.
The next morning, I found her still there under a blanket.
I made coffee.
Set a mug on the table for her.
Then went to work.
The following weeks were not dramatic.
That surprised me.
I had expected screaming.
Maybe smashed objects.
Maybe Damon appearing.
None of that happened.
Instead, six years became inventory.
Books.
Kitchen equipment.
Furniture.
Art.
Bank accounts.
Insurance.
Utilities.
Passwords.
Subscriptions.
Storage.
Every object became a question.
Who bought it?
Who wanted it?
Was it worth shipping?
Was it worth fighting over?
Petra wanted to keep the townhouse at first.
Then she ran the numbers.
Buying out my equity would stretch her too far.
We decided to sell.
The photographer came on a Tuesday afternoon.
The listing went live Thursday.
Offers arrived that weekend.
Seattle real estate did what Seattle real estate often did when inventory was tight and the house showed well.
Three offers.
Two above asking.
Petra sat beside me at the kitchen table while we reviewed them.
For thirty minutes, we sounded like ourselves again.
Rational.
Collaborative.
Discussing inspection contingencies.
Escalation clauses.
Closing dates.
Then we chose one.
Afterward, neither of us moved.
“We’re selling our house,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
She cried.
I almost did.
My friend Todd Kesler helped me pack.
Todd and I had known each other since graduate school.
He worked in commercial banking and had a talent for knowing when not to ask questions.
We spent a Saturday boxing books.
After two hours, he finally said, “Do you think she slept with him?”
I kept taping a box.
“I don’t know.”
“You never asked?”
“I did.”
“What did she say?”
“No.”
“You believe her?”
“Yes.”
Todd stopped.
“Then what happened?”
I looked at him.
“Why does everybody need sex for this to make sense?”