So yesterday didn’t matter.
I read that twice.
Then I typed, Yesterday mattered. It just wasn’t the first time I was told I could be removed when things got uncomfortable.
She did not answer.
Daniel did.
He wanted to know whether I would still pay the remaining balance on Ava’s orthodontic plan.
The question was so ordinary that for a second I was grateful for it.
“Yes,” I said when I called him. “I already agreed to my part. I’ll pay the office directly.”
He was quiet.
“So you’re leaving but still trying to be involved.”
“I can keep a commitment without living there.”
“You understand how confusing that is for Ava.”
“I understand.”
By lunchtime, he had changed the garage code.
He texted me that it was better if I didn’t come by unexpectedly because Ava needed to feel comfortable in the house.
I still had clothes there, my grandmother’s dishes, work files, and most of my winter things.
Instead of arguing about the code, I asked for a time when I could collect them.
Saturday, he said.
He would be home.
For the next few days, the fight changed shape.
Daniel stopped asking whether I would come back and started sending lists.
Which streaming service was mine.
Which utility payment came from my account.
Which cookware I planned to take.
Nothing on those lists was dramatic, but each one made the separation more physical.
On Wednesday evening, while I was trying to attach a shower curtain rod that kept sliding down the tile, Ava texted again.
Did you write things about me in that file too?
I sat on the closed toilet lid, one sock on and one sock off.
Some of the dates involved you, I wrote. The file wasn’t about blaming you.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Then came back.
I didn’t think he would actually make you leave.
My hand stopped over the screen.
I waited.
