In early February, Sarah scheduled a visit to the house so I could collect the last boxes of personal belongings listed in our agreement.

Mark wasn’t required to be home, but he insisted on meeting us.

The place felt unfamiliar.

Several framed photographs had disappeared from the entrance hall, and the rug beneath the skylight had been moved.

A broken lamp sat on the side table.

In the kitchen, mail was piled so high it nearly covered the marble island where he had told me he wanted everything except our son.

Mark made coffee and asked if I missed the house.