I drove over in my truck with a toolbox and a portable heater.

We didn’t fight.

We didn’t say one word about attorneys or assets or court dates.

We sat on the floor of her half-furnished loft in the orange light of that little electric heater, drinking bad instant coffee out of two mugs that didn’t match, and for a few hours the enormous cold wall that had grown up between us simply wasn’t there.

Seven years of a shared life sat down on the floor with us.