Quiet is what arrives when the ghosts have finally been evicted, and the space breathes for itself again.

By mid-summer, I’d carried out an aesthetic exorcism.

I stripped the heavy, depressing velvet curtains from the master bedroom and replaced them with sheer, breathable linen. I hauled Ethan’s monstrous leather recliner to the curb with immense satisfaction.

I purged the walls of every photograph documenting the charade of my marriage. In their place, I hung evidence of my actual life. A vibrant watercolor I’d bought at a local artisan market.

A candid, sun-drenched photo of my sister Clare and me laughing uncontrollably on the shores of Lake Michigan. A vintage portrait of my mother. These weren’t expensive artifacts, but they were authentic.

They were proof that Olivia Bennett existed entirely independent of Ethan’s gravitational pull. The divorce was finalized on an unremarkable Tuesday afternoon, in a suffocatingly small conference room that reeked of stale Folgers and printer ozone.