“I know what it was.”
“Then say it.”
She stared at me.
“I was controlling you.”
That was the first fully honest sentence Rebecca had given me since the night our marriage ended.
I leaned back.
My anger disappeared.
That was almost worse.
I felt tired.
Deeply tired.
Rebecca whispered, “I’m sorry.”
I believed that she was.
It did not fix anything.
“I need you to stay away from Riverside.”
She nodded.
“No calls.”
Another nod.
“No unknown numbers.”
“Yes.”
“No mail.”
“Yes.”
“No checking anything.”
“I won’t.”
I looked at her.
“You said that like it’s difficult.”
Rebecca looked down.
“It probably will be.”
That honesty frightened me.
But it also told me she finally understood the problem.
I said, “Then get help.”
She nodded.
“I already started.”
Therapy.
Her attorney had apparently insisted.
Maybe her sister too.
It was not my business anymore.
Before we left, Rebecca asked one thing.
“Did you really sleep better after you left?”
I looked at her.
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes.
I almost apologized.
Old instinct.
Instead, I let the answer remain.
The police investigation did not become some dramatic criminal prosecution.
There had been no physical assault.
No threat of violence.
Rebecca cooperated once confronted.
My attorney and law enforcement helped establish clear no-contact boundaries, and formal court restrictions were put in place while the divorce proceeded.
That was enough for me.
I did not want revenge.
I wanted distance.
The divorce took six months.
The house sold.
We divided the equity.
Retirement accounts were handled.
Furniture became strangely emotional.
Rebecca kept the dining table.
I kept my father’s old record cabinet.
She kept our bedroom set.
I did not want it.
The guitar was already with me.
So was the toolbox.
The green duffel was evidence for a while.
When it was eventually returned, I threw it away.
George saw me carry it toward the dumpster.
“That the famous bag?”
“Yeah.”
“You should burn it.”
“Illegal.”
“Only if they catch you.”
“You’re a terrible influence.”
“I’m old. There are fewer consequences.”
I put it in the dumpster.
No ceremony.
No symbolism.
Just trash.
My leave from Hollis & Reed became permanent.
My boss offered my job back.
I surprised both of us by declining.
Riverside had begun feeling like mine.
The library offered me a full-time facilities position after their maintenance supervisor retired.
The pay was lower than restoration work.
The hours were better.
No emergency calls at eleven at night because a pipe burst through somebody’s ceiling.
I accepted.
Rebecca had once told me our routine made her feel trapped.
For months afterward, I worried that liking routine meant I had failed somehow.
Riverside taught me otherwise.
Routine was not the problem.
A routine you did not choose could become a cage.
A routine built intentionally could become peace.
I woke at six.
Coffee downstairs with George.
Library by eight.
Lunch near the river.
Home around five.
Sometimes I played guitar in the evenings.
Badly at first.
My fingers had forgotten everything.
Elena, the librarian who originally hired me, found out I played and signed me up without permission for an informal Friday music group.