“We were married eleven years.”
“Were?”
Rebecca went silent.
I hadn’t meant it as a weapon.
But once spoken, it remained between us.
“I’m sending papers,” she said.
“Okay.”
“I already spoke to someone.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t care?”
That question surprised me.
“You told me you don’t love me.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t care.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You sound relieved.”
I almost told her the truth.
I was.
Not about losing my marriage.
About sleeping.
About silence.
About being able to go to the grocery store without someone later asking why it took fifty-three minutes.
Instead, I said, “I’m tired.”
Rebecca hung up first.
The divorce papers arrived four days later at George’s address.
That was the first thing I should have questioned more seriously.
I had not given Rebecca my address.
My attorney had it.
My employer did.
George.
The library payroll office.
My bank.
But not Rebecca.
I called Helen.
“Did you give my address to her attorney?”
“Your service address appears on documents unless we use my office.”
“So yes?”
“No.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“We listed my office for service.”
I looked at the envelope.
My name.
My Riverside address.
Handwritten.
No return address.
“Helen.”
“Yes?”
“I think Rebecca knows where I am.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you use a joint card in Riverside?”
Once.
The motel.
But not George’s apartment.
I said, “Maybe.”
Helen’s voice changed.
“Maybe is different from yes.”
“I used our credit card at a motel before I opened a separate account.”
“In Riverside?”
“No. Forty miles away.”
“Have you posted online?”
“No.”
“Mutual friends?”
“I haven’t told anyone except work.”
“Does she have access to your email?”
I changed the password immediately.
Or thought I had.
Helen told me to change it again.
Also cloud accounts.
Bank passwords.
Phone carrier PIN.
Everything.
“Do not accuse her yet.”
“Why?”
“Because if this is coincidence, you create unnecessary conflict. If it isn’t coincidence, you want documentation before confrontation.”
I saved the envelope.
The papers inside were already signed by Rebecca.
She was not contesting the separation.
No dramatic demands.
The house would need to be divided.
Savings.
Retirement.
Normal things.
That almost made me feel ridiculous for being suspicious.
Then the photographs arrived.
A flat package.
Inside were thirty-two printed photographs from our marriage.
Rebecca and me in Charleston.
Rebecca sleeping on my shoulder during a train ride.
Our first Christmas in the house.
Archie wearing a ridiculous sweater.
My thirty-fifth birthday.
A blurry photograph from the night we got engaged.
Nothing written.
No explanation.
I called her.
“What are these?”
“Pictures.”
“I know what pictures are.”
“You left them.”
“I didn’t ask for them.”