I slept in the guest room, not because I was afraid to be alone in the bedroom, but because every object in it seemed to have been chosen by a person I no longer knew.

The next morning I went looking for the old divorce file.

My attorney at the time, Howard Lyle, had retired.

His successor, an associate named Dana Ortiz, agreed to meet me after checking that there was no conflict in reviewing my old papers.

She did not greet my revelations with sympathy.

She opened a notebook and asked for dates.

“When exactly did you separate?”

“Thirteen months ago.”