The sofa that Kelsey liked to sit on while scrolling through her phone belonged to me. The dining table where Scott once hosted friends and accepted praise for a beautiful home belonged to me. The pendant lighting above the island belonged to me. Even the curtain rods belonged to me.
When the truck arrived, the neighbors watched with polite curiosity while the movers worked quickly and carefully. Scott was at the office and had no idea what was happening.
By the time he returned that evening, the house echoed.
Now he stood in the middle of that echo, staring at empty walls.
“This is ridiculous,” he said.
Kelsey stepped carefully around the room as if the floor might accuse her. “It feels like a rental,” she complained.
Scott looked at me again. “You could have left the basics.”
“I did,” I replied.
He frowned. “What basics?”
“The walls,” I said.
He did not find that amusing.
The divorce process moved faster than anyone expected because the agreement was simple. Scott kept the house. I kept my property. The documents were clear and signed.
During the first week after I moved into my new apartment in Chicago’s West Loop neighborhood, Scott called twice. I ignored the calls. Then he tried again from another number. I blocked that too.
A few weeks later he finally reached me.
“Rebecca,” he said when I answered, using my name in a way that sounded almost careful. “Please listen.”
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Kelsey left,” he admitted.
I waited.
“She said the house felt awful,” he continued. “She kept saying it looked like a dorm room.”
“That must be difficult,” I said without emotion.
Scott sighed. “I didn’t realize how much work you did. I thought it was just stuff.”
“It wasn’t stuff,” I replied. “It was my job.”
“Can you help me fix it?” he asked quickly. “I can pay you.”
I leaned back on my couch in my bright apartment and looked around the room filled with pieces I had chosen for myself.
“We are divorced,” I reminded him.
“Not officially yet,” he said. “But soon. Rebecca, could you at least tell me what to buy?”
“You can hire a designer,” I said.
“I want you,” he insisted.
“You didn’t want me,” I replied calmly. “You wanted what I built.”
He fell silent.
“I wish you luck,” I said, and ended the call.