Third, I reached out to a therapist.
I found her through a referral and left a voice message, so cracked with grief I almost hung up halfway through. But I didn’t.
I was determined to see this through.
Lena arrived with coffee, fury, and enough practical energy for both of us.
Together we packed Daniel’s things.
His shirts, shoes, razors, and books he pretended to read.
The spare headset he kept in the office drawer.
The watch I gave him for our 10th anniversary.
Every object felt like touching evidence.
On his desk, I found the divorce papers.
They were dated three days earlier, and he had already signed his section.
I sat on the floor and stared at them until Lena quietly took them from my hands and put them in a folder for Patricia.
That should have broken me all over again.
Instead, it clarified something.
