The movers were fast and efficient. By 3:00 PM, the house was perfectly clean, but echoing with an undeniable emptiness. I stood in the kitchen, right in the exact spot where he had told me I wasn’t special enough.

I looked at the island where he had leaned with his beer.

I didn’t feel a shred of remorse. I took off my wedding ring, polished it on my shirt, and set it dead center on the granite countertop. Next to it, I left a sticky note. I didn’t write a manifesto. I didn’t pour my heart out or list his faults.

I only wrote six words. Go find something better. I did. I locked the door behind me and drove across town to my new apartment. That first night, I ordered takeout, drank a glass of wine out of a paper cup because I hadn’t unpacked the glassware yet, and listened to the silence.

It was glorious. My phone started blowing up at exactly 7:42 PM. The first call was ignored. Then came a barrage of text messages. Where are you? Why is half your stuff gone? Lauren, this isn’t funny. Call me. What the hell is this note?

Are you out of your mind? I put my phone on ‘Do Not Disturb’ and watched a movie. The next morning, I finally read the rest of his frantic messages. The arrogant, detached man from the kitchen was gone, replaced by someone utterly panicked. He had spent the whole night calling my friends, my mother, anyone who would listen, begging to know where I was.

When I finally agreed to meet him at a public coffee shop to discuss the logistics of the divorce, he looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

He looked small. “You can’t just leave,” he pleaded, his hands visibly shaking as he grabbed his coffee cup.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. “We can fix this. We can go to counseling.