I moved out three days later.
The house had been his before it was ours, and I didn't want it. I packed what was mine, which fit into six boxes and two suitcases, and I left the ring on the kitchen table in an envelope with his name on it. I left the leather tag I'd made him, too, the one I'd stitched with his initials, the one that had hung on his mirror for two years before a beaded cat took its place.
I didn't leave a note. There was nothing left to say.
Margot drove down to help me move. She didn't ask many questions. She stood in the kitchen and looked at the envelope on the table, and then she looked at me.
"You're okay?"
"I'm okay."
"You walked nine miles in the cold."
"I did."
"And you brought the receipts to his company party."
"I did."
She laughed, once, surprised. "Tha
