I had prepared it during the nights he had been absent.

It was a proposal, not a decree, and I knew enough from law school to understand that putting paper in an envelope did not divorce anyone.

At seven, I stood in Vanguard’s marble lobby with the suitcases, his spare executive keycard, and the envelope.

The receptionist recognized me.

“Mrs.

Lexington, what’s happening?”

“These are Zachary’s belongings.

This envelope contains a proposed settlement.