Here's the thing I keep turning over: the pajamas. Cotton, print worn off at the knees, older than me. She'd come home, shower, put them on, fold her legs up in the desk chair. That was the version of her I had. Tired. Mine. Three years of that. I paid what I could, she covered the rest, and she never once made me say thank you. She told me she worked at a consulting firm — long hours, development research. She came home with the hours, so I believed them. Everything spare went into an account with both our names on it. Down payment money. Then I worked a dinner at the museum in a catering vest and heard a woman say her name like it belonged to a building. I looked up and there she was, in a circle of men who all wanted something from her, and a ring on her hand worth more than my whole life so far. I loved her. I also never knew her. Both of those sat in the same room that night. I'm the one who said get out, and I'd say it again. I wrote this for people who've had to leave someone they still wanted.