I declined again.

On the third attempt, I powered off the phone and closed the laptop.

For three years, I had kept our Annapolis house running like a hotel whose most important guest was rarely present.

His suits hung by season.

His shirts were pressed.

His watches rested in separate cases.

His cufflinks were polished before events where he increasingly arrived with Paige at his side.

I had thought the work might make our home a place he wanted to return to.

That morning, I pulled two leather suitcases from the closet and packed his everyday clothes, shoes, toiletries, and the things he most often needed when traveling.

Everything he owned would not fit into two cases.

I did not tear apart the rest of the house to make a theatrical claim that it could.

I put an inventory in the first case.

His other belongings would be collected by arrangement.

Beside the luggage, I placed a sealed envelope containing proposed separation terms and my contact instructions.