Eva lived in a small bungalow on the far side of Santa Barbara, where the kitchen table was scratched, the hallway always smelled faintly of rosemary, and nobody worried if a chair didn’t match the others.

She made tomato soup while I sat with my shoes off and tried to understand how my life had become two small piles of belongings on her spare-room floor.

“Callum gave you divorce papers?” she asked.

“He put them outside with my keys.”

“Did you sign anything?”

“No.”

“Good.

Tomorrow we find someone to explain your rights.”